#the motel might explode from their tension

[coldblooded-angel]

COVID AU where Art and Tashi are forced to quarantine when the city wide lockdowns prevent them from traveling. They find a motel that would let them rent the room for as long as they need to. Thankfully, Lily is with her grandma and they’re both safe.

I want forced proximity. I want Tashi going stir crazy not having anything to do. I want Art still attempting to keep in shape until one day he’s too lazy to workout or get up out of bed. I want Art and Tashi forced to actually talk about anything other than tennis.

COVID AU where Patrick gets trapped in the lockdown. He knows he can’t stay in his car forever so he goes to the nearest motel and uses his emergency credit card to rent a room.

One day, he decides to use the amenities. He knows the motel has a pool and he’s not surprised to see other guests already there. He knows he should stay 6 feet apart. Except he recognizes that blunt short bob and that mop of blonde curls.

Yeah, Patrick Zweig just casually quarantining with the Donaldsons. It’s definitely gonna turn out fine.

(Blame @lovethelittlerthings for implanting this in my brain 😵‍💫😵‍💫)

[yourjughead]

The Past

Sweet Pea X Reader

A/N: In my world Fangs is not dead. I don't know if this makes sense with the canon of the show. it is what it is. Much love.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Sweet Pea jogged through the streets of the South Side, mind racing about following Josie to New York or not. The 11pm  jog a result of another fight about futures between the two. Sweet Peas legs burned as he pushed through, enjoying the pain and believing he deserves it. The rain glowed in the street lights, the centre of the Southside almost deserted, all busy taking advantage of the late night and the cover of  rain to get business done. 

Finally deciding he'd had enough he checked his phone to find a missed call from a private number. Not unusual for a high ranking Serpent he thought, locking the phone again, tucking it into his pocket and beginning to jog again, crashing directly into the door of a taxi. 

“Fucking hell!” He gripped the top of the window with his hands before placing a hand on his chest. You swung your legs out of the taxi starting to apologise, the words catching in your throat at the sight of him. 

“Sweet Pea” 

“YN…YLN” 

You took the door from his grip closing it behind you, the taxi immediately relocking it's doors and taking off back into the streets. The dying light of the last remaining Southside motel flickering light up both your profiles. 

“Emm you're looking well Sweets…Sweet Pea” the red flush from his jog was gone from his face growing pale at the sight of a ghost and a nickname not spoken in almost 4 years, back to senior year. 

“Thank- what are you doing here YN?” tones of confused sadness left Sweet Pea, the anger towards you he felt so many years ago unable to be conjured back at will. 

“I have business with…it doesn't really matter who. I wasn't expecting to see you, it's only a flying visit”

“I suppose you're good at that” you looked away briefly to shield some of the pain of that dig before looking back, exhaling and trying to nodd to him. The rain had began to soak you both down to your skin but neither of you moved.

“I…I'm sorry about how we left…how I left it…I know that's not enough… I don't know how to fix it” it came out of you in a jumble.

“If you had an umbrella that might make a start” he half smiled at you easing some tension, used to playing that role in your life. Your phone ringing cut through the air between you. 

“I have to take this Sweets….Sweet Pea” he nodded in understanding as you swiped to answer the phone while turning from him. 

“Yeah- Yeah - I'm here now - whatevers necessary - Yeah - For how long?! - But - Yeah fine” you looked back around and found a puddle where Sweet Pea once stood, having run back off into the night.

Sweet Pea POV

After my encounter with the ghost I met with my friends at the Wyrm. I needed a drink...or a bull tranquiliser.

“She what?!” Toni chipped the ball over the side of the pool table in shock as told them of my encounter.

“She tried to apologise” 

“Ughhhh” Toni took her shot and Jughead watched from the booth, typing away.

The bar was abuzz with talks of yn. She was the name on everybody's lips, a few people even saying I made it up.

“She should just go back to where she came from” Toni growled.

“Isn't she doing that by being here” Toni looked at Fangs like she was trying to explode his head with her mind.  

“There's no way she'll last the weekend, she'll get wind of all of the gossip about her and bolt” Fangs sunk a ball in the corner pocket.

“Yeah she's good at that” Toni missing a sure bet. It was clear Yn was running laps around her mind, she was in everyone else's. 

“Do you think she'll go to FPs birthday party”

“I'm not sure fangs, I wouldn't think so” I sunk another ball. 

“That'd be pretty ballsy” he sunk two

“Yeah but then again that sounds like yn” Toni chipped another ball over the side receiving teasing from fangs and I. She's usually much better than this, she's clearly very bothered.

The ball rolled along the bar floor and stopped dead under the sole of a boot. Yns boot. She stood, hands in her pockets, confidently surveying the bar. You could hear a pin drop, it was like a scene from an old wild Western. She laughed lightly before kicking the ball back in our direction and strutting towards the bar, there wasn't an eye in the house not on her. Fangs mouth hung open, Toni stood straight with pursed lips and a mixture of hate and pain in her eyes. Jughead was the only one to make noise, busily typing away. Yns eyes dragged around the room, staying a little longer on me than anyone else...or maybe I was imagining that.  The sound of her boots off the wooden worn floor echoed throughout, she sauntered up the back the stairs, pushing a strand of hair over her shoulder. I hate how i want to be the one to do that again. I hate how she can still command a rooms attention without a word. I hate how i don't hate her. She reached the back office door, looking over her shoulders before ducking inside. The bar buzzed back to life. 

“How dare she walk in here!!!” Toni was turning red, fangs looked more confused but not as much as Jughead did.

“So that's yn? Why is she such a big deal?”

“She nearly killed Sweet Pea” 

~

[giorno-plays-piano]

Promises

Hi dear! As agreed, I’ve changed it to dad’s friend!Bucky <3 Hope you’re going to enjoy this!

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Reader

Warnings: yandere, obsession, age gap, daddy kink, allusion to non-con, death of minor characters.

Words: 3000.

_______________________

Looking at the lonely chocolate muffin laying on the table in front of you, you closed your eyes for a couple of seconds, making a wish: it was your birthday, and you were stuck in some filthy roadside diner with no one but Mr. Barnes by your side.

Bucky. You were ought to call him Bucky, you reminded yourself, opening your eyes and blowing softly on a single candle sitting on the top of your muffin.

It wasn’t his fault you two ended up here - there had been a huge accident on your way back home, a tanker truck exploded into flames in the middle of the highway. In fact, you were lucky you were far away since several drivers and passengers who had the misfortune to be close to the truck had already been declared dead. It was all over the news, most of the people inside diner glued to the old TV hanging on the wall.

Staring at the candle, you carefully pulled it off and dropped it on a cheap white napkin, taking the muffin and eagerly having a bite. Mr. Barn... Bucky watched you from the other side of the table, his coffee already long cold. There was no smile on his face as you quietly said thank you to him, but you barely remembered him smiling at all despite knowing him for several years at the very least. He was your dad’s friend, and he often visited your house to share a beer and watch hockey with your dad late in the evening. Who could imagine it would be Bucky of all people helping you stay afloat.

“What did you wish for?” He asked you, and chuckled grimly at him, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. Apparently, you had to keep it a secret to make your wish come true, but it didn’t matter now.

“To have a family.”

You gulped down a sob and stared at the red table as Bucky reached out to pat your shoulder gently. Both of you knew what you meant, but you had no strength to talk about it again. It was still painful as hell.

“It will get better.” He said quietly as you nodded, wiping away your tears and gulping down your coke. “You need time.”

Yeah, time, that was what everyone around you kept saying as if time could change the fact you were all alone now; as if it could make you forget all that happened and keep the pain away. What could time do? Make you insensitive, unsympathetic, and unable to feel anything at all. All this time could probably do to you, sure.

He bought a couple of ham sandwiches and bottles of coke for the evening and left with you following him closely. The motel room was just as dirty as the diner, but you didn’t expect anything else, preparing to cleaning it up - anyway, there wasn’t much you could do around here. Although there were lots of people stuck here along with you two, you had no wish to go talk to them about the tragedy. You had your own already, and it was enough for you.

“Your uncle looks scary on this photo.” Your phone buzzed in your pocket, and you picked it up, reading the message from April, your best friend - your only friend, to be completely honest. “Like he’s straight out of those serial killer documentaries.”

“April, come on."

"what, I'm serious lol"

"Maybe he’s not your sunshine guy, but he’s the only one who stayed with me after all that happened."

"And he is NOT my uncle!”

“sorry girl just wanted to cheer you up”

You smiled at the text, missing Bucky’s gaze as he came closer to you.

“Who’s that?” He asked, and you raised your eyes at him, immediately getting back to your grim state.

“April. She saw the photo I sent her.” Explaining quietly, you tried pretending you were happy, stretching your lips in a thin smile and thinking whether Bucky could feel it. “She’s checking on how we are here.”

“Good.”

With that he left to bathroom, leaving you on your knees scrubbing the floor. He was bad at cleaning - really bad, missing tons of dirty spots to the point it felt like he didn’t clean anything at all. That was why you preferred doing it yourself. Besides, it was him who paid for the room and food despite you trying to share the expenses, so you felt obliged to him.

Bucky certainly wasn’t the most talkative or friendly type, but he still cared about you, supporting you the way he could. Even if he was way older than you, and a part of you still didn’t feel very comfortable around him, Bucky was the only one by your side. He agreed living with you when most of your relatives had little interest in staying even for a few days longer, leaving you all alone. He helped you with all the legal stuff you knew nothing about, never having to deal with these issues before. He gave you a drive to your university campus every morning and called you every time when you were supposed to come home, probably afraid you’d do something to yourself. That was what you thought, at least.

He was a good man. Maybe a little gruff, seemingly unfriendly, intimidating even, but still better then all those who promised to look after you and then vanished.

“I’m going to go for a walk.” Bucky said after leaving bathroom and putting his sneakers on. “Will you be okay by yourself?”

You felt shame bubbling up inside you at his words. He still thought you might be suicidal.

“Of course. I’ll be waiting here.”

With that he nodded and left you alone with a bright pack of Lysol and dirty doormat on the floor. Sighing, you felt relieved, finally staying all by yourself in the grim silence of the room. It wasn’t that bad. You weren’t stuck together somewhere in the desert with no food and shelter. Tomorrow morning you’d be able to return home from that little improvised vacation Bucky organized purely for you, staying in a cabin close to the beautiful lake in the woods. It wasn’t his fault you were spending your birthday like this, scrubbing the floor clean and wiping the dust from shelves and nightstands instead of celebrating somewhere in the club with April, drinking fancy cocktails.

In half an hour you finished the clean up and had a shower, changing into your funny pink pajamas - you knew your looked pathetic in it, considering how old it was, but it was one of the things that made you feel safe. Anyway, Bucky didn’t care about the way you looked, so you simply wore whatever you found comfortable, often looking like a kid who was too big to fit into their old clothes.

“Whatcha doin??” A message popped up on the screen as you checked your phone again.

“Gonna go to sleep, I guess. I didn’t sleep well yesterday again.”

“i have a gooood recipe for a nice 8-hour sleep”

“Really? What’s that?”

Instead of answering you clearly, she sent you a link. To your horror, instead of checking the name first you simply clicked on it and found out April sent you some porno. Groaning, you quickly turned it off, afraid somebody gonna hear it - the walls here were out of paper, you could swear.

“WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?” You typed furiously. “Are you mad?”

“come on, what are we, holy virgins?? Ima telling you, this thing works! Just try it, you’ll be sleeping after this in no time!”

“April, even if I’m gonna believe this crap, Bucky just went for a walk. I have no clue when he’s going to come back. Do you really think I’m ready to do this when he’s around?”

“damn girl just don’t put earphones, cover yourself with a blanket and sit facing the door.” You could literally see her rolling her eyes at you. “you’re a grown up, there’s nothing to be ashamed of. When you hear the man coming, just turn it off!”

Rubbing your eyes tiredly, you muted your phone and carefully opened the link again, trying to understand what kind of porno she sent you exactly. Apparently, it was that daddy thing she kept telling you about - you read the name of the video, and your face grew unbearably hot in a second. Damn, this girl had no shame whatsoever.

But maybe she was right: you needed to release some tension that had been building up over the last months. It was quite an innocent way to do it, really, and you’d be careful enough to do it before Bucky came back, finding anything suspicious. You were a human being, after all! There was nothing nasty in what you were going to do, you tried assuring yourself.

“I’m gonna regret it.”

“NO GIRL YOU WON’T! Treat yourself!!”

Laughing, you quickly dropped your phone on your bed, taking a tablet out of your backpack along with a pair of pink socks - you couldn’t explain it, but your feet were always getting cold while you pleasured yourself. Getting comfortable on your bed and wrapping a comforter around yourself, you opened your tablet, setting the volume level low and finding that link April sent you. You threw a quick glance to the door, prepared to switch the tablet off any second if Bucky was going to show up. Shoot, were you doing it for real? Yes, yes you were.

Opening the video, you bit down on your lower lip, a little ashamed still. Trying to get these thoughts out of your head, you concentrated on what was happening in the video, watching a girl sitting on the lap of a beefy bearded man stroking her ass. He was speaking to her softly, but in a very low, husky voice, and you realized it was getting warm in between your thighs. You closed your eyes, listening to the voice that, along with a sound of him slapping the girl, was making you aroused way more than the picture itself.

"Have you been good, princess?" The man whispered, and you could see the smug grin on his face even with your eyes closed.

Yes, you have, you thought, your hand slowly trailling down your belly and touching the elastic of your cotton panties.

Fuck, you heard the sound of one more slap and bit your lip again, imagining it was you he spanked, caressing your raw, hot skin with his calloused palm, his fingers digging in your soft flesh when you tried moving away, quietly squirming from his touch. You were a good girl for him. You'd do what your daddy told you, baring your ass in front of him and getting back on his lap, moving on top of him, making him feel you through the fabric of his pants until you ruined them. Would daddy be happy if you rode him, moaning like some dirty slut until he shut you with his mouth? Would he like you cumming on his cock with your eyes rolling inside your skull out of immense pleasure?

With your fingers on your clit, you gently stroked that bundle of nerves, getting more and more wet until you soaked your panties, listening to the voice of that man and imagining being with your own daddy, somebody who would take care of you, somebody who would never leave you alone and comfort you when you needed it the most. Oh, were you crying, thinking of it? You could feel your eyes growing wet as you softly moaned. You imagined the man touching your hair and kissing your forehead, and tears were now streaming down your cheeks.

You were pathetic, you thought. You couldn't even pleasure yourself while watching porno anymore.

Softly sobbing, you kept listening to the video, touching your sleek folds and missing the shadow that descended upon you - you couldn't see the stranger behind the window, watching you sitting there on your bed with a tablet in front of you, seeing the video clearly. Maybe Bucky couldn't hear it from the outside, but he knew it - he saw it a couple of weeks ago when he felt a little lonely.

You almost cummed when you heard the steps right outside the door, inmediately hitting the screen to stop the video and hiding your tablet beneath the comforter. You didn't figure out anything better than pretending you were already asleep, aside from the fact it was barely seven.

Covering your head, you prayed Bucky didn't see anything suspicious, mentally cursing April for sending you the link. Shit, you knew this wasn't going to end well! Why on Earth did you even tried something as reckless and stupid as this when Bucky could show up any minute?

"I know you're not sleeping."

His voice sounded so much closer than you anticipated that you almost flinched, holding your breath for a couple of seconds. Fuck, did he know? Did he hear you? Could he see the tablet beneath your blanket?

You stilled, still pretending you were sleeping when Bucky landed close to you, the bed dipping under him. When he suddenly touched your leg, making you flinch involuntarily, you clamped a hand around your mouth. Shit! What was he doing? He had never ever touched you like that before. Was he mad? Did he-

"You can stop pretending, little one." As Bucky lifted your comforter, you stared at him, terrified to the core with your eyes almost popping out of their sockets.

Immediately, you tried moving away, determined to get to the other side of the room, but he quickly held you down with his hands on your wrists, getting on top of you. Shit. Staring at his dark but calm expression, you saw a strange glint in his eyes that had never been there before. The thought made you shiver.

Something was wrong with the way he hold you, looked at you - it was not like before when he treated you like some sad kid, patting your head awkwardly when you cried and rarely giving you a hug. You were staring at the man who barely reminded you of Bucky who had been coming to your house to watch a hockey game late in the evening. This man seemed like a stranger.

"Please, Mr. Barnes-"

"Shhhh." He interrupted your pleading, leaning closer to you so his dark hair brushed against your face. "Don't be scared. It's alright."

No, no, it wasn't alright in any sense, and you kept struggling, doing your best to break free from his grasp until Bucky made you yelp from pain, grabbing your hands so hard you thought you'd have bruises. When you got silent, trembling beneath him with your eyes full of tears, he got closer, his forehead touching yours as he exhaled into your face.

“P-please, I don’t want to.”

“Don’t you? I’ve seen what you’ve been doing while I was gone.” His stormy grey eyes bore into you, and you thought Bucky was angry at you watching that filthy porno. “But I won’t punish you.”

“What do you want then?” You sobbed, then froze when he kissed your cheek, and then your nose and eyelids, his chapped lips brushing softly against your skin. His touch felt warm.

“To take care of you.”

You looked at him with your watery eyes, whimpering softly when Bucky kissed your forehead as you relaxed beneath him, shocked at his words. Take care of you? What did he mean by that? Wasn’t he taking care of you already? No, now you knew why Bucky was close, and he definitely wasn’t some good Samaritan you imagined him to be. Was it all for this? Did he pretend to be your friend just to let you lower your guard?

Crying, you closed your eyes, thinking how silly you were wanting someone to be by your side, having dreams about someone taking care of you, comforting you when even the one you thought was there for you just wanted to use a silly little girl and throw her away.

“Take what you want and go.” You managed to mumble, choking on a sob. “Just leave me alone.”

Bucky raised his brows, his gaze heavy as he stared at your face wet with tears. “Why would I? Didn’t you hear what I just said, little one?”

You gave him a sarcastic smile, avoiding looking him in the eyes. “You’re here because you want to take something from me. So, take it and go. Please!”

Bucky let out a loud breath, getting off you and rolling to the side, but holding you close and pressing your face into his chest. You could feel a subtle smell of sweat coming from him; strangely, it was almost comforting. Anyway, you had no strength left to fight him, so you just laid there, his hands on your back and in your hair. His black zipped hoodie was quickly getting wet with you still sobbing quietly.

“I’m not going anywhere, little girl.” He whispered, touching the top of your head with his lips. “You’re mine to take care off. Look at you, barely able to sleep on your own. How do you think you will manage without me?”

You didn’t answer, not knowing what to say. What Bucky told you was true - you barely existed outside of your house, facing the reality where you were always alone. April was trying her best to help you come to your senses, but she wasn’t family. You needed a family.

“Will you stay?” You whimpered, shaking lightly at the though Bucky would go, too, and you would end up all by yourself, talking to four walls until one day they would talk to you, too.

“Remember your birthday wish?” He asked instead of answering your question, and you felt like the air was sucked out of your lungs. But before you had time to said something, Bucky dropped a kiss to your forehead again, caressing your head tenderly. “I am your family, little one. You will never be alone.”

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Tags: @finleyjayne @alexakeyloveloki   @helenaeisenhower @villanellevi @hurricanerin​ @abyssaint @heeeyitskay @chris-evans-indian-fanfic @navegandoaciegas @rosalynshields @brattycherubwrites @sllooney @angrythingstarlight @lookiamtrying @buckysbunny @soleil-dor @stargazingfangirl18 @dillybuggg @ninefuckingoneone @iheartsebastianstan @inlovewiththefictionalcharacters

[fandom-imagines-stories]

Empty Eyes

Dean Wincester x Reader

Words: 3574

The Deal S2 Finale: Series Masterlist

Summary: The reader and the boys go on a hunt to distract themselves from the growing chaos, but the hunt proves to be more than they anticipated. 

Notes: Now, I have to admit, season two was a little rocky, but I think it turned out okay. I hope you guys are as excited for the third and final season because I am beyond pumped to write it. As always, please please let me know what you think! 

-

Your leg bounced up and down, the tension in the car making your anxiety about the hunt even worse. Mary left. You weren’t sure if it was because of you or because of the stress of being back from the dead, but she said she needed time on her own to figure things out. Dean wasn’t taking it well, so Sam wanted to distract him by getting on a case fast. 

“Are you sure you’re ready for this?” Dean wondered, noticing your nervous fiddling. You snapped your attention to him and gave him a convincing smile. 

“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” With his mind so many other places, he settled on believing you. At least for now. You checked your eyes in the rearview mirror. They were still Y/E/C. They were your eyes. 

“Alright, remind me what we’re after?” Dean asked. You could hear the desperation in his voice. Desperate to put his fist through something. He needed to break something before he bust. 

“Looks like a shapeshifter just outside Castle Rock, Colorado.” Sam informed, scrolling through the article on his phone. “But I won’t be sure until we get there.” 

“What do you mean you can’t be sure?” Dean snapped. Sam knew that his brother’s frustrations were not directed towards him, so he did his best to keep a cool head. 

“Well, there have been a series of deaths that all involved people suddenly turning against their friends and family after a weird change in personality.”

“That could be a number of things.” You pointed out, leaning up from the back. 

“Yes, but there have been a few instances where the person that supposedly killed their whole family was caught on camera in a bar half way across town.” Sam gave you a smug look and you returned it with a rough pat on the shoulder. 

“Oh, how I missed your know-it-all brain, Sammy.” You laughed, hoping the lighter mood would ease Dean’s mind. He feigned a small smile, but his hands were still gripping the wheel a little too tight. 

Mom leaving was not the only thing that Dean was worried about. Ever since Cas had taken that angel blade from your hands a week ago, you had pretended that nothing had happened. You were back to being exactly the same girl that he fell in love with and as much as he hated it, it worried him. He knew what was eating you up inside and he knew you were trying so hard not to show it. But just because you wanted to pretend it wasn’t there, didn’t mean it wasn’t stirring in your chest, waiting to consume you. He knew the feeling. 

By the time that the impala pulled into town, everyone in the car had inner turmoil and were desperately trying to hide it. So in other words, a typical Thursday. 

-

“So be serious,” Sam started as you walked up to the door of one of the crime scenes. Dean was looking over security tapes at the police station, so it was just you and the giant Winchester. “How are you feeling?” 

“I’m fine, Sam.” You rolled your eyes playfully and hoped he would just leave it be. But of course, it was Sam, so he couldn’t. 

“You know you can talk to me about it, right?” His sincerity made guilt seep into your head so you walked ahead of him. Sam let out a frustrated breath and stopped on the first step of the porch. “I get that you just want to pretend that it didn’t happen, but you can’t.”

“Sam, we are not talking about this now. We’re on a case.”

“Y/N, I don’t care about the case. I care about you and Dean and the fact that neither of you are processing anything that has happened in this past week.”

“Dean doesn’t know how he feels about your mom leaving. I understand that.”

“No, Dean knows how he feels, he just doesn’t want to feel it.” Sam corrected, running his fingers through his hair. “You both are just pushing everything so far inside of you that it's just going to build up until it explodes.”

“I’m not exactly going to go to a therapist, if that’s what you want.”

“I just want you to talk to me. To both of us. I’m not saying I know exactly what happened to you down there, but we’ve all been to hell-”

“Well that just makes it so much better. Maybe we should start a support group.” You snapped. “I saw his face. Nothing is ever going to erase that from my head.” You watched his face fall. 

“Y/N-”

“Just stop it, Sam!” You shouted. Even though he was much taller than you, you got in his face, seething. “Just. Stop.” The fury in your voice frightened even you. Sam took a startled step back. You felt like your blood was on fire, racing through your body and searing off your skin. You sighed and looked down at the old, rotted wood steps beneath your feet. “Sorry, Sam, I just-”

“It’s okay.” He put a comforting hand on your shoulder. “This is just what I’m talking about though. You keep this inside of you for too long and it’s going to lash out.” 

“I know.” You leaned against one of the beams, almost worried that it would collapse. “I don’t know what to do, Sam. Everywhere I go, I’m worried that I’m going to snap and hurt someone.” 

“You won’t.” He assured you. “Y/N, I know you don’t believe it, but there’s nothing evil growing inside you.” His green-blue eyes stared lovingly at you. “It’s like Cas said. There is a part of you that is broken, but that does not mean it can’t be fixed. That’s what we’re here for.” 

“I don’t think that a couple of beers and a road trip is going to put me back together, Sammy.” You said, keeping your head down. 

“No,” Sam put a finger under your chin and lifted your gaze back to his, “but we can sure as hell help you pick up the pieces.” 

You fought back tears and pulled the younger Winchester into a hug. After all that time in hell, Sam Winchester was still your brother.

“Are you two the agents that called?” An officer peaked their head out the door. You quickly pulled away from Sam and nodded. 

“That’s us.” 

“Well come on in. Better prepare yourselves though. I don’t think I’ve ever seen so much blood on one carpet.” The officer shuddered. You and Sam exchanged a look before following him inside. 

He wasn’t lying. The carpet was soaked with red and it was splattered all over the walls. This had to have been one sick shifter to do all of this. Sam checked out the largest pool of blood since that’s where the victim bled out. You made your way around the room, checking little details that might give you any clues as to where this son of a bitch could be. 

“Can you tell us anything about the victims?” Sam asked the officer, crouching down to look at the extent of the blood. 

“Well sure, agent. This is a small town. Everybody knows everybody.” He motioned to a broken picture frame on the floor. “The first was Talia Gonzolaz. She’s lived here her whole life, my sister went to school with her. The next two were her kids, Rosalia and Carmen.” He looked mournfully at the once happy family. “I still can’t believe that Mateo could do something like this.” 

“So you knew the killer well, too?” 

The officer nodded. “He ran the bar that us cops would go to after our shifts. Always seemed like such a nice guy.” 

While Sam continued to ask questions about the family, you walked the perimeter of the room. Everything seemed deliberately out of place; books were torn apart and thrown about the room, furniture was slashed up with a knife, records were shattered on the floor. There was only one intact and it sat with the needle still running. The local police must not have noticed. You switched the record player off and felt a chill run through your veins. 

“I think we’ve got it from here if you’ve got some work at the station to take care of.” You announced, giving the officer a look that said you wanted him out of the room. He obliged, hardly in a position to argue with a federal agent, even a fake one. Sam got up and walked towards you. 

“Find something?” He looked over your shoulder to see what had your face turning white. You gulped. 

“I don’t think that a shifter is behind this.” 

You both stared down at the blood smeared record, the last sound the victims heard before they were hacked to pieces. Bad Company. 

-

Dean burst into the motel room, adrenaline coursing due to his brother’s urgent phone call. Sam was sitting on the bed, resting his head in his hands while you were hidden behind the partition separating the sleeping area from the kitchen. 

“What happened? You said something was wrong.” He asked. Sam just glanced back in your direction. 

“This hunt may be bigger than we thought.” He said grimly. Dean quickly went into the kitchen, where you were pacing madly in front of an open book. You didn’t even notice him. 

“There has to be a reason she’s picked me.” You muttered to yourself. “Demons don’t just follow people around forever for no reason. She picked me. Why?” 

“What happened at the crime scene?” Dean wondered, watching you with concerned confusion. 

“She’s here, Dean. She’s here for me.” You yanked your fingers through the tangles in your hair, keeping up your furious pacing. Dean grabbed you by the arm, forcing you to stop moving. 

“Woah, okay, first I need you to calm down.” He put his hands on your shoulders and waited until your breathing seemed to return to normal. “Now, what are you talking about?” 

“Lavina is here.” His brows drew together in even more confusion. You gulped. “The demon I made the deal with. She then made me her personal punching bag in the pit.” 

“Why would some low-level demon have a grudge against you?” He asked, pushing images of you being torn apart out of his head. He saw them enough in his nightmares every night. 

“That’s what I’m trying to figure out.” You moved to stand over the book on the table, fingers running down the columns of words as you scanned them. “I’ve been looking for hours and I can’t find anything about Lavina or demons with special connections to humans.”

“How do you even know she’s here? I thought we already figured out it’s a shifter.” 

“There was a record on at the last house. It was meant for me, I know it was.” You flipped through the pages, eyes wild and determined. Dean sighed. He’d seen that look of furious obsession before. 

“If it really is this demon chick, then we can figure it out together.”

“No.” You blurted, suddenly looking up at him. He straightened his shoulders and narrowed his eyes. 

“What?” 

“Dean, this is my fight. Lavina wants me. I’m not going to let you and Sam get in the middle of it.” You started to pack up your things into a backpack: exorcism books, paint for devils traps, and most importantly, an angel blade. 

“Oh, you’re not going to let us, huh?” He glowered, blocking the doorway. “You’re just going to march out there, summon her up and take her down, right?”

“That’s the plan.” You put your hands on your hips and stared him down. If he thought he could bully you into staying then he was sadly mistaken. 

“Y/N, a week ago you tried to use that blade on yourself, so if you think I’m letting you out of my sight with that thing, you’ve got another thing coming.” 

“This is my fight, Dean.”

“No.” He growled. “No, the second you made that deal, you made it my fight too. So don’t you dare tell me that ‘you have to do this alone’ because that’s crap. We either go after Lavina together or not at all.” He loomed over you, jaw clenched and eyes hard. He would tie you down if he had to and you knew it. 

“Fine.” You sighed in submission. “We’ll go together. But, I need a shower first.” Dean quirked a brow. “No, you can’t come with me. I want to get this blood out from under my nails.” You moved around him to grab a fresh set of clothes from your bag. Sam was still sitting on his bed, giving you an inquiring look. He had heard the argument, but decided not to say anything. He just gave you a small nod of reassurance and started looking through some old lore books. As you walked towards the bathroom, Dean gently grabbed your arm. 

“Y/N, I…” He took a deep breath, trying to figure out his words. “I can’t risk anything happening to you. Not again.” His hard gaze had turned sad, almost desperate. You gave him a small smile and pressed a sweet, short kiss to his lips. 

“That’s how I feel about you.” You whispered, running your fingers along his jaw. You slipped past him and tucked something between the shirt and jeans in your arms. Dean ran a hand down his face and sighed heavily, taking a seat across from his brother. 

“She wants to go alone?” Sam asked. 

“Yeah.”

“Did she really think we’d let her?” 

“I guess so.” 

“Dean, I saw her face when she saw that record. The look in her eyes…” He shook his head. “It’s consuming her.” 

“I know.” The sound of the water running set him at ease slightly. “Sam, I don’t know what to do. We can’t let this demon run around making meals out of people, but if Y/N gets to her without a real plan?”

“Then we’ll make a plan.” Sam shrugged. It was really their only option, as much as he hated to admit it. “We’ll do it together, like we always do.” All Dean could do was nod, staring at the wall while thoughts ran rampant in his mind. Half an hour must have passed before he started to worry. 

“Y/N?” He said through the door, knocking lightly. The water kept running. “Sweetheart, I think the water’s cold by now. Sam and I want to start making a plan, so why don’t you come out?” Still no response. 

Then something caught his eye. An empty spot on the table where you had set the angel blade. Dean’s blood boiled. With one powerful kick, he busted open the bathroom door to find the vacant shower running and the window wide open. 

“Son of a bitch!”  

-

You climbed into the window of the abandoned warehouse being careful not to scrape your arms on the broken glass. Looking around the room, you found the best spot for the trap and pulled out the spray paint you’d bought on the way here. 

“There’s no need for that.” It was a different voice, but you’d recognize that malicious tone anywhere. This time, Lavina possessed some poor blonde college student. “I knew you’d come looking for me. Especially after that little incident with Dean-o.” You narrowed your eyes, grabbing the angel blade from your boot. 

“How do you know about that?” 

“Oh, Y/N, haven’t you figured it out yet.” She put her hands over her chest in mock sincerity and pouted her lips. “We’re connected.” 

“Screw you.” 

“I see your manners haven’t improved in the company of the Winchesters.” She stalked towards you slowly, like a cat looking at a canary. “Unfortunately, you haven’t killed the brutes yet, so what can I help you with today?”

“This ends. Now.” You growled, lunging at her with the blade. 

The fight wasn’t a pretty one. Having missed with the knife, you brought your elbow back into her nose, satisfied with the crunch that came with it. Lavina then grabbed your hair and slammed your head down into her knee. Your vision blurred and your head was spinning, giving her the chance to land a kick to your stomach. Grabbing your hair again, she yanked your head up to face her. 

“I’m going to have so much fun dragging your sorry ass back to hell.” 

You swung the blade again, this time cutting a large gash into her leg, making her cry out furiously. You swung a third time, catching her arm. When she looked at you again, her eyes were empty and black. 

“Playtime’s over.” She spat, holding out her non-injured hand. You felt an invisible force push you back, pinning you against the wall. The angel blade clattered to the ground. “Did you really think you could come in here with that toothpick and defeat me?” She clenched her fist and that invisible force squeezed around your neck. “You’re going to make one hell of a demon.” 

“I don’t think so, bitch.” The voice was both a relief and a new problem to deal with. Dean and Sam stood in the doorway, their own blades ready to attack. Dean stepped forward. “Let her go.”

“Oo, the Winchesters in the flesh. Aren’t I the lucky gal.” Lavina smirked, tightening her fist. You gasped for air, eyes blown wide with panic. “I don’t know if this is a good idea for you, Dean. Don’t you remember what happened last time you fought a demon with little old Y/N here?” 

“There’s only one of you, now.” Sam jeered, stepping forward with his brother. Her smile widened. 

“I guess you’re right, Sammy boy.” With an innocent shrug of her shoulders, she looked at you. “I’ll see you later, sweetheart.” 

A black cloud roared out of the blonde’s mouth and her body slumped onto the floor. You fell to your knees, gasping for breath. Dean and Sam both rushed to your side, helping you sit back against the wall. While Sam kept a hand on your shoulder, waiting for your breathing to return to normal, Dean paced back and forth in front of you, his feet stomping furiously. 

“Dean-” You started, your voice raspy and weak. 

“I said we’d go after her together and you decide to climb out of a window!” He screamed. “You know, if Sam and I thought you were still in the shower, you’d be Lavina’s bitch all over again. Or did you even think about that before marching in here alone?” 

“I just… wanted… this to be… over.” You coughed, trying to stand up, but Sam kept you on the floor. 

“Yeah, well it isn't over now, is it? Lavina is still out there, probably possessing some other poor girl as we speak.” 

“I’m sorry.” You looked up at him with tears of shame in your eyes. “I thought I could face her, Dean. I was wrong.” Your gaze fell to the floor, cheeks burning with both embarrassment and the hot tears threatening to spill over. “I’m not strong enough. I’m not the hunter that I used to be. I didn’t want to believe it until now, but I don’t have any fight left.” 

Sam gave you a sympathetic look, but Dean just looked angrier. 

“Alright, that, right there, is crap.” He knelt down in front of you, eyes blazing with both determination and devotion. “If there is one thing that you’ve shown this past week is that everything you have been through has only made you stronger. You made it through hell without breaking. You have shouldered so much and kept going. Never think that you don’t have any more fight in you, because the fight is all we’ve got. And if you need someone to take that on for you, then dammit Y/N, I will take it on. But fighting on your own doesn’t prove anything. You are still the badass woman I fell in love with and nothing is going to change that.” 

He held his hand out in front of you and you took it. He pulled you up and wrapped his arms around you. 

“Nothing is going to change that.” He repeated, running a hand up and down your back. You pulled back and gave the two Winchesters a small smile. 

“Alright boys.” You straightened up with a new sense of power. With the Winchesters by your side, you were invincible. “We’ve got work to do.”

-

In a small, quiet town not too far from you and the Winchesters happy little moment, a young waitress was closing up for the night. Just as she turned the key, something dark filled her reflection. It was the last thing she saw. 

Content with her new look, Lavina examined the pretty young thing in the window. She usually preferred blondes, but that was nothing a little bleach couldn’t fix. The uniform would also have to be ditched, but all in all, she would do very nicely. 

She let out a frustrated cry and shattered the glass with her fist, enjoying the pattern the blood left on the pavement. Those damn Winchesters. They never learned how to stop meddling. No matter. Those boys weren’t the only ones who could hold a grudge. Her fight to avenge her family was far from over.

-

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The Deal Series: @writeroutoftime; @ minninugget; @mia-ono; @erule; @ dannyo000

[pitaparka]

between the devil and the deep blue sea

summary: you wake up to find your brother missing. you’re then met by two handsome boys in your motel room, who just so happen to have his key. they offer to help you find him.

pairings: jj maybank x reader / john b x reader

word count: 3.1k

warnings: a missing brother, teenage boys, and a whole lot of eventual unresolved sexual tension

a/n: outer banks. that is all. happy quarantine yall. big love.

It was jarring to wake up in the motel all by yourself. You hadn’t even heard him leave. 

It took you too long to notice. The room was plunged in darkness, and you took your time waking up, getting out of bed, brushing your teeth. You had only turned on the light when you had decided to get dressed. Which is when you saw the empty bed next to you. It was hastily made, but even the fact that it was made threw you off. He had never been one to make his bed, even back home. Especially not when he first woke up. Did he plan on not coming back? His suitcase was zipped up on one of the chairs at a small desk off to the side. It made your stomach drop to think about. In your PJs, you checked the bathroom, the closet (for good measure), and under the bed (just in case). 

You called his name, but there was no answer. You had woken up multiple times through the night, afraid of the windows exploding, or the door caving in. There were no sand bags or boards for your room. But each time, you were lulled back asleep during a calm in the storm. The noise plus the springy mattress had not allowed for a restful sleep, and you were out of bed as soon as it was reasonable.

Your bare foot hit the damp pavement stepping out of your motel room. Petrichor filled your nostrils. It was a refreshing change from the musty dank mess you had spent the night in, but it wasn’t much more comforting. You were still alone, and you had no clue why. There were men and women all over the motel balcony, working on moving large branches and surveying the damage. You were suddenly grateful you weren’t in one of the rooms on the end, that had large cracks in the concrete. You looked both ways from your room, but you hadn’t recognized anyone. Power tools drowned out the sound of children playing in front of the motel front down below you. There were mattresses put up against the railing. You were expected to check out today, and you had agreed on leaving early, but you didn’t want to leave without your brother. The only option was to wait for him. You returned to the room.

You figured a shower was in order. So you didn’t hear the knock until you came out, towel around your shoulders, fully dressed this time. Thank God. Because you heard the key turn in the lock and light filled the room and all the doubt plunged from your chest because your brother was back—

But he wasn’t. You stared from the bathroom. Two boys. Neither of them your brother.

“Huh,” one says, and you really take a good look at the two of them. Just in case you have to describe them to the police. 

Tall. Wavy brown hair. Hat backwards. Bandanna around his neck. The other one blonde. Short hair. Tank top. Really nice arms, but considering they’re breaking into your motel, you look past it. 

“Check the bag, see if there’s a name on there somewhere.”

A name. Why do they want your name? If they’re going to steal things, they might as well just take it. They’re both teenage boys. About your age. Tall. Probably taller than you, but you can’t tell. The blonde one shoves the key deep into his cargo shorts. They go to close the door behind them.

It takes them a second to notice you. You must look like a deer in headlights.

“How did you get in here?” You ask. You saw the key. Where did they get the key? Only you and your brother have keys, how did they—

“Oh shit, I’m so sorry, we didn’t know anyone—” One of them starts.

“Fuck,” the other one says.

“We found this key, we just wanted to—” One goes to explain, but you’re more scared than they are.

“What are you doing here?” You ask

“We just wanted to see where this came from,” says blondie, holding up the motel key. “We wanted to just—”

“Yeah, we’re sorry, we’ll be leaving now,”  The brunette goes to leave, and the blonde goes to follow. The one with the key in his hand doesn’t let go of it. You need to know where they got that key from.

“No! Wait,” you say, and they stop in their tracks.

“Where did you find that key?” You ask. They look between each other.

“On a boat,” One of them replies. The other stares at him.

“What boat?” you ask. You can feel your heart thumping in your wrist. You leave the doorway and sit on your brother’s bed. The door to the motel room is slightly ajar. They, theoretically, could run and never come back. But they haven’t left yet. 

“We… we found it. At the bottom of a marsh.” Brunette says. You let out a shaky breath. What the fuck does that mean? Whose boat did he have? How did he learn to drive a boat? Why would he get on a boat, in the middle of a fucking storm?

Your phone rings on the table next to them. You rush over to it, and the boys move back a little bit. There’s no caller ID. You answer.

“Hello?” you stare at the boys. They stare back at you. They look invested now.

“Hi! Are you busy?” The person asks. It sounds like a man, but not your brother.

“Who is this? How did you get this number?” you say. Today, nobody feels like giving you their names.

“Is your brother there?” 

“No, he’s not here… who is this?”

“Ah, okay, sorry! Have a nice—”

“Who is this?” you demand, but the line goes dead. 

“Fucking great,” you mutter, and the boys are still there.

“Uhh,” one of them starts, “We’re just gonna go.”

You’d had enough. You were fed up with the cryptic messages of today. Your brother disappearing out of nowhere, these boys, the phone call. 

“Can you… Do you know where the boat is, still?” you ask. You run your hands over your face, exasperated. This day was shaping up to be one of the worst of your life.

They’re both silent for a beat, before Blondie speaks up.

“Yeah. We could, I mean, we could show you where it is. Why?” 

Brunette glares at him.

“I can’t find my brother. He left this morning… that’s his motel key. He doesn’t have a boat. I just… I don’t know what’s going on today.” you explain. Brunette gives you a sympathetic look.

“He might be at the store or something,” he suggests, but Blondie has other ideas.

“I’m JJ,” he introduces. He fishes the key out of his pocket and holds it out to you. You decline it.

“No, you can hold on to it. I only need one,” you say, and you lean over to open the drawer next to your bed. Your key isn’t in there. But your brother’s phone is. And a motel sticky note with a number on it

“Oh shit,” you say, and Blondie—JJ, leans over to look in the drawer. He takes out the paper.

“Guess you could use this key then, huh?” he says with a smile. You return it sadly, and take the key from his hands. He looks over the paper.

“Thanks,” you mutter. 

“What’s this for?” he asks inquisitively. 

You take it from his hands. It’s six random numbers. It means nothing to you.

“I don’t know,” you say, handing it back. He hands it over to the other boy. You get up, and move over to the side of the room where your shoes are. Where your brother’s shoes aren’t. 

You give Brunette a once over after you put your shoes on. 

“Who are you?” you ask, and he introduces himself as John.

“But he’s really John B.,” JJ clarifies.

“Is there more than one John?” you ask.

“Probably. It’s a popular name,” John B. says, leading the two of you out of your motel room. You’d have to leave before tonight. You have nowhere else to go, so maybe because of the hurricane they’d let you stay. Checking out the boat wouldn't take too long, right?

“You guys aren’t… serial killers, right?” you question after you lock the door behind you. This is a terrible idea, going with these boys you don’t know at all. But there have been worse ideas. Like your brother leaving early in the morning to steal a boat and sink it in the ocean. You know he can swim, but you can vividly remember him tiring easily at the lake you’d spend the summer at with your family together. Your heart breaks a little bit at the memory.

“Oh come on, could a serial killer look this good?” JJ says, flaunting his body. He playfully runs his hands over his chest and face, and John B. laughs at him.

“Come on, dude, you’re freaking her out,” he says, and looks back at you while you guys walk down the stairs. 

“No, we’re not serial killers. At least not today,” he smirks. You figured you were gonna regret this, but it was too late to turn back now. Besides, what would you do in the motel room until your brother got back. What if he did come back, and you weren’t there? 

Your heart races.

“Wait,” and the sound of their feet on the gravel stops. 

“What if he comes back? And I’m not there? I should at least leave a note or something, right?” you worry. 

“I mean,” JJ starts, “If I were you, wait—have you texted him?” he says.

“Yeah, it was one of the first things I did. But he didn’t take his phone with him.” you say, picturing his phone sitting in the drawer, halfway charged, your missed calls and texts the only notifications. You didn’t know his password either, so it’s not like you could snoop.

“Well, then I think the boat will be your best bet. I could dive down there and see if there’s anything else in it,” John B. suggests. JJ nods in agreement. It’s nice how they decided to assist you, but you can’t help but feel like there’s an ulterior motive underneath it all. 

“Why… I mean, thank you, but—why are you helping me?” you say as you walk with the boys. They’re easy to talk to, and you feel like you guys could be friends very quickly.

“We got nothin’ better to do,” John B. says with a smile, and you think how nice it would be to be a part of something.

“Oh shit, it’s the cops,” JJ says, and you and John B. look up immediately. 

“What are they doin’ here…” John inquires. 

“Do you guys know them?” you ask, and JJ gives you a look.

“Know them? We’re practically besties.” 

The way he says it doesn’t make you feel better.

“Let’s go, before they see us.” John B. says, and you follow them to a little boat moored on the shore. 

“This is what we found in the room,” JJ says as he gets closer. There’s two other people there.

“A girl?” the boy says. The girl just smiles at you.

“Hi,” you say, and introduce yourself to them.

“I’m Kie, that’s Pope,” Kie says, gesturing to Pope. They look nice enough. It’s a nice little crew they have, and you find yourself wishing you could have something like this. Maybe, just maybe, if things worked out, you and your brother could make a life here. Do something here. Be someone here. But first, you’d have to find him.

“We walked in and she was in the room,” John B. says.

“We thought someone called the cops on you. Look,” Pope says, gesturing to where they had pulled up. They were talking among themselves near their patrol car. 

“Yeah, we know,” JJ says. He holds your hand as he helps you onto the boat. His hands are firm and cold, but you realize you like holding them. He smiles at you, then John B. puts his foot on the side of it.

“Uh, where’s my hand JJ?” John B. asks, and JJ responds with a shove, almost pushing John into the murky marsh water as he loses his footing, half on the boat, half on the shore. John B. gives him a hard shove back, and JJ loses his balance, catching himself with one hand, that comes back wet and muddy. You look on in amusement, but Pope tugs on your shirt, moving you back a little.

“You might wanna move back,” he says, and John B. jumps onto the boat, JJ in tow. They run around the center console for a second, JJ chasing John B. with a muddy hand, and Kie pats the spot next to her. The boat was small, so you took the opportunity to sit down. 

“What’s your story?” she says.

“Hmm?” you hum, tearing your eyes away from JJ slathering the back of John B.’s shirt with half dry mud, flaking onto the boat and sticking to his shirt. Pope narrowly avoids the splash zone, gripping the edge of the boat. 

“I can’t find my brother. The key you guys found? That was his. And he doesn’t have a boat, so I don’t really know what happend. I wanted to go check out where it was, y’know?”

You felt better around Pope and Kie. They were the more level headed of the four, you concluded. Which is probably why they were on the boat and not breaking into your motel room. You unheedingly ran a hand over the key in your pocket, fiddling with the hem of your shorts. You wish you had brought sandals you noted, as some of the water on the boat saturated the canvas of your shoes, right above where the rubber sole ended. 

“That sucks. I’m sorry,” Kie apologizes, before JJ hops off the boat again. At the front, he undoes whatever knot he used to tie the boat to whatever waterlogged tree he could find there. With a strong push, he dislodges the boat from the shore, and just makes it back onto the boat before John B. turns on the engine.

“All aboard that’s coming aboard?” John B. cries out. 

“Aye aye Captain,” says JJ, moving to the front of the boat.

John eases the boat out of the motel area, and back into the marsh. 

“You ever been on a boat before?” JJ asks, taking a seat at your feet. You politely decline the beer he offers you. He shrugs and places it back into the cooler on Kie’s side.

“Uh, not one like this. I’ve been on a boat before though,” you say.

“What, you been on boats nicer than this one?” Questions John B. from the helm.

“Not possible. This is the nicest boat there is.” Pope replies sarcastically. 

“Yeah, I don’t know what’s my favorite part, the broken fishing rod holder or the helicopter engine on the back of this thing.” JJ says. You chuckle softly at his joke, but you find it endearing how John B. defends her. 

“Aw, don’t listen to them, Old Girl.” he says to the boat.

“You’re still my favorite,” John B. whispers to her, giving the wheel a little kiss.

Everyone laughs at him, and he grins, sitting a little taller in his seat. 

“Are you from around here? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you before.” Pope says, beer in hand. They can’t be of age, but it’s an island, so who cares.

“No, I’m not. My brother and I were just passing through, but the storm hit. We were supposed to leave two days ago, but there were no ferries coming in or out.”

“On your way somewhere?” Kie asks.

“Nowhere specific,” you say, and JJ laughs.

“Mysterious, I like it,” he gets up from his spot at your feet and stretches upward. The tank he’s wearing already shows off a lot of skin, especially his sides, but when he stretches, he exposes his stomach a little bit. He’s got an athletic build. I guess that’s what happens when you live on an island.

“What about you guys?” you ask, suddenly a little claustrophobic with all the attention. 

“Have you guys always lived here?”

“Yeah. We all grew up here. Been here since we were born.” Pope says.

“Hopefully not for much longer,” clarifies Kie.

You quirk a brow at her. She continues.

“There’s nothing left for us here. Nobody cares about us. If we can get out, we can probably do something with our lives.”

“Yeah. If I want to do anything worth doing, I won’t be working under my dad when I do it.” Pope adds. Everyone else seems to agree.

Everyone except John B.

“I think that’s it,” he says, slowing the boat down considerably and looking over the console to get a look at it.

You and everyone else crowd the side of the boat. You don’t like how it leans forward a little, with the weight of everyone on the bow of it. In the cloudy water, there sits a big hunk of something. If he hadn’t had pointed it out, you probably would’ve paid no mind to it. It reminds you a little bit of how the Titanic sank.

John B. all of a sudden has his shirt off and his sandals, hat discarded somewhere off to the side with his bandanna in it. He jumps headfirst off the side of the boat, toward the object in the water. 

“I hate it when he does that,” Kie voices, “He’s gonna crack his head open one of these days,”

“Let him,” JJ says, watching the water intently with the rest of you. 

The seconds pass by slowly, and you begin to worry about John B.

“Should we go get him?” Pope asks, but John B. answers by popping up out of the water, sputtering and coughing, wiping his face with his hands.

“Anything?” you ask hopefully.

John B. stares at you. 

“Well, it’s still a boat.”

“Great, John, that’s totally gonna reassure her.” JJ criticizes.

“I couldn’t stay under long enough to see what was down there,” John B. says, making his way over to the side of the boat.

“So? What now?” you ask. All hope is lost. You can only hope that your brother is waiting for you back at the motel. 

John B. shakes his hair dry like a dog, and then slicks it all back. You can see he’s prepared to let the sun dry him off. He looks at you whimsically.

“Actually, I know where we could get some scuba gear.”

[bookloveravenue]

Cover Reveal!

Taste by Melanie Harlow

The last person on earth I want to be stranded with is Gianni Lupo.

But thanks to the blizzard of the century, I’m trapped in a roadside motel room with that cocky bastard for two straight days.

With one small bed.

Some women might thank Mother Nature for delivering a polar vortex that maroons them with six feet of solid muscle, those deep blue eyes, that sexy grin--but not me. I’ve known Gianni Lupo all my life, and he’s never brought me anything but bad luck and trouble.

So when the tension between us explodes with enough fiery heat to melt my icy defenses, I should have known what the disastrous end result would be--

A big fat plus sign.

After the snow melts, I’m left with more than just memories of the night we spent keeping each other warm. And he might be a rising star on the culinary scene, but he’s got no idea how to handle this bun in the oven.

He says he wants to do the right thing, but I’m not about to spend the rest of my life feeling like someone settled for me.

But just when I think I’ve got Gianni Lupo all figured out, he gives me a taste of the man he could be, of the family we could become, of the way he could love me if I let him.

I’m terrified of falling for him.

But one taste might be all it takes.

##

Reserve your copy exclusively on Amazon today!Amazon: https://amzn.to/3JIXsRMAmazon Worldwide: http://mybook.to/TasteMH

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Cover Designer: Hang LePhotographer: Michelle Lancaster @lanefotografModel: Chase Mattson

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About Melanie Harlow

USA Today bestselling author Melanie Harlow likes her martinis dry, her heels high, and her history with the naughty bits left in. When she's not writing or reading, she gets her kicks from TV series like Ted, Lasso, Schitt’s Creek, and Fleabag. She occasionally runs three miles, but only so she can have more gin and steak.

Melanie is the author of the BELLAMY CREEK series, the CLOVERLEIGH FARMS series, the ONE & ONLY series, AFTER WE FALL series, the HAPPY CRAZY LOVE series, and the FRENCHED series. She lifts her glass to romance readers and writers from her home near Detroit, MI, where she lives with her husband, two daughters, and pet rabbit.

Connect with Melanie

Facebook: http://bit.ly/2RPwr51Amazon: http://amzn.to/1NPkYKsBookbub: http://bit.ly/36kL7yBInstagram: http://bit.ly/2NW3UtAPinterest: http://bit.ly/2sVOz55Facebook Reader Group: https://bit.ly/3mYzBBoStay up to date with new releases and sign up for Melanie’s mailing list: http://bit.ly/2P7MATTWebsite: www.melanieharlow.com

[wienerbarnes]

Breathe Deeper

Pairing: Bucky x Reader (Cheek to Cheek)

Word Count: 2,324

Prompt: “Why is it always murder and mayhem with you? Don’t you ever just do normal person things? Eat a sandwich? Brush your teeth? Do you even brush your teeth?” (from a random prompt generator)

Warnings: murder, violence, staging a suicide, ~feelings~

A/N: cafe bustelo does wonders for you at 1 am anyway ive been trying to finish this for like two months. have a couple more ideas for these two but feel free to send me any ideas or requests and ill do em if the inspo strikes! also title is purely the song im listening to as i type this out and has no correlation to the story LOL but hey if yall like tame impala enjoy

MAIN MASTERLIST | CHEEK TO CHEEK MASTERLIST

A single pop is heard as a bullet flies out of your gun into the head of the old man who opened the door.

“Christ! No build up?! No tension?! No confirmation that it’s even him?!” Bucky yells as he wiggles his ear to rid the ringing from it.

You brush past Bucky and slide the gun back into the holster strapped to your thigh. You step over behind whatever his name was, Bucky’s having trouble remembering after that blow to his eardrum, and hook your hands under his arms in order to  drag him back into the empty house.

“Why is it always murder and mayhem with you? Don’t you ever just do normal person things? Eat a sandwich? Brush your teeth? Do you even brush your teeth?” Bucky questions you as he closes the door behind him, stepping in between splatters of blood.

“Nope, gotta leave leftovers for the bugs that live in my mouth.”

“That’s gross.”

“Shut up, help me lug this guy to the bedroom.”

The two of you are in a small town in Northern Oklahoma on the property of one of your ex-Hydra handlers. After a few days of researching, the two of you were able to figure out where he moved to and what he changed his name to after retiring from his prior lifestyle.

“I knew it was him from the second I saw him. You never forget.” You explain to him, both of you positioning his body in the corner of the room.

“You go clean up the entryway, I’ll finish staging over here.” Bucky offers it to you. He takes out his own gun from his own waistband and fires a single shot through the same hole you put in between the guy’s eyes. The splatter that explodes on the walls behind him are perfect, artistic almost. Bucky then starts looking around the room; in the closet, under the bed, until he reaches the night stand where a pretty little pistol lays. Not the same gun as his, but he has a feeling the police system in such a small and unpopulated town won’t bother to investigate this death as a murder as opposed to the obvious suicide that took place.

Bucky notices the small skull and octopus stamped into the side of the gun as he places it in his hands. He rolls his eyes before making his way back over to the entryway where you’re sat on the ground, scrubbing away with a rag in your hands and a bottle of bleach next to you. 

Bucky walks over and takes a seat on the loveseat positioned a few feet away from where you are.

“So, where we heading after this?” Bucky asks you, leaning forward and resting his elbow on the arm of the seat.

“Back to New York? You probably gonna be busy working on that murder case.” You glance at him confused before going back to scrubbing.

Bucky pauses before speaking again, “How do you know about that?”

“I… keep up with my fair share of news.”

“You don’t pay for newspapers nor do you have a TV or a phone; you don’t have news. Besides, we haven’t released any information to the public about anything before we get more leads. So, how do you know about that?” Bucky stares at you, eyebrows pinched a bit in the middle as he awaits your answer.

“Do you wanna stop and get some pie on the way back?”

“No. Did you see something about the murders?” Bucky ignores your attempt at changing the subject.

“You just said you haven’t released anything-”

“I don’t mean on the news, I mean in that empty head of yours.” He teases.

You sigh, “I hate when you ask me about my… head.”

“Well, you could be helping here! You can try and be good!”

“I’m sitting on the floor scrubbing an old guy’s blood out of the wood of his own house after I’ve just blown his brains out.”

“Yeah, a bad old guy!”

You get off the last of the specks of blood before standing up and screwing the cap back onto the bottle of bleach. “I didn’t even see anything about the killer, anyway.”

“So, what did you see?”

“You’re not gonna let this go, are you?”

“Fetch me a bone here, doll.”

“Yeah, I’m sure you’d like that, dog.”

He grabs the bleach and rag from your fingers to free up your hands from carrying anything. Tingles travel up the tips of your fingers and flow up through your wrist into your chest. You glance up and make eye contact with Bucky and the dramatic puppy eyes and pouty lips he’s throwing your way. 

You stare for a few more seconds before looking away, “Check that huge pond in Central Park tomorrow. His next victim will be floating there.” You satisfy him before turning and making your way back outside and to the car the two of you took on your little road trip.

While walking back to the parked car, Bucky quickly rushes in front of you and grasps the handle before you can reach it, allowing you to get in the car while he holds it open for you. He throws you an innocent looking smile, a smile coming from a person who surely didn’t just stage a suicide. You bite back your own smile before taking a seat and letting Bucky close the door behind you.

…

When you open your eyes after your nap, it's dark outside the moving car. You slowly lift your head up off the car window and glance over at Bucky, who you now realize is on the phone with someone.

“I told you, it was a weird anonymous number, Sam. I don’t know where it came from.” Bucky speaks softly on the phone before turning his head to look at you in your sleepy state.

“All they said was to check the pond in Central Park tomorrow. I know it’s sketchy, but we don’t have any other leads anyway, we might as well try it.”

“We sounds like a lot of people, ain’t you say that to me one time? Not all of us are on vacation, you know.” You hear another deep voice through the tiny speaker of the phone against Bucky’s ear.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I’ll be back the day after tomorrow, man.”

Bucky wraps up his conversation as you process what you’ve heard. Bucky has lied, again, to the government, to Captain America, in order to protect you and your existence.

“How’d you sleep?” He asks before your thoughts can get too far from you.

“Fine. We’re already heading back to New York?” 

“We’re stopping at a motel for the night, but after tomorrow’s drive, we’ll get there by sundown.”

You sit up proper and stretch your legs as far out in front of you as you can, the bones crunching and popping in relief at the new position. Bucky cringes next to you. He glances at you and watches you pick at the crust gathered at the corners of your eyes, a yawn escaping you along with the last of your grogginess.

Bucky doesn’t know how he’d fully express it to you, but he’s so happy to see the person you’re growing into. Everyday a little bit more of your personality, your mannerisms, your weirdness, your humor, your ideas; everything about the real you, shows more and more. He sees this beautiful woman who, maybe a year and some ago, was walking the line of death and now sits beside him with neon green nail polish and mismatched socks and cute flower earrings adorning the curve of your ear. He stares at the tattoo on your neck, that angry red face with large eyebrows and wonders whether or not that was your idea or not. He wonders if you have any other tattoos hidden among the space of your skin, he doesn’t remember seeing any along your sides or stomach that nightmare of a night in his apartment-

“You’re swervin’.” 

Bucky clears his throat and snaps his head forward, fixing the car to drive straight on the road. Soon, he sees the promising sign, “Motel in 10 Miles,” and the two of you park in the small lot of the light orange building.

The inside smells of old people, an aged scent that isn’t necessarily bad, but makes you scrunch your nose nonetheless. No bugs in clear sight and the roof is still intact, so it should be suitable for a night of rest.

“We only have rooms available on the first floor for tonight, I’m assuming you’ll want one bed?”

Bucky's throat goes dry for a second, “Yes, that’s fine.” He doesn’t want to consult you as you look far off out the front window of the lobby, back turned to the young woman at the front desk. No matter how small a town in whatever state there is at this point in their journey, there is no risking anyone recognizing you, even if your search mission has been deemed unsolved.

A plastic card is slid into Bucky’s right hand and he begins making his way back outside and down the walkway towards their room for the night. You follow him silently.

“I call showering first, I think there’s small clumps of blood still stuck in my hair.” You tell him, flinging your backpack onto the bed, and pulling out a large sweatshirt and panties and taking them into the bathroom with you. 

While the water begins to run, Bucky undoes the blankets, looks thoroughly through the pillows and in between the sheets in search of bed bugs. Next, inspecting the lamps, outlets, and anything else that could possibly hide a camera, microphone, or any other device. He even contemplates tearing apart the carpet under his feet, but decides against the extra work. He places your bag along with his own backpack on the small table in the corner of the room and fixes the bed to not look like he tore it apart recklessly. I wonder what side she prefers-

The bathroom door opens and a cloud of steam flows out, you soon emerge with a towel wrapped around your head, large sweatshirt hanging off your frame and bare feet digging into the soft carpet beneath you. You fling the towel off of your head using momentum from throwing your head and neck forward, the towel landing on the floor in front of you and your wet hair sending a light spray Bucky feels on his warm face.

By the time Bucky finishes with his shower, the room resembles a sauna and his metal arm has gone hot. A long sleeved shirt and cotton shorts are slipped onto his body along with a pair of thick socks to keep him warm at all times. He steps out of the bathroom, using his towel to rub through his hair, and he spots you using the small mirror on the wall. 

Your legs are on display and your underwear is in sight. Bright pink with WEDNESDAY printed on the behind in bubble letters, it’s Friday, the bottoms of your butt cheeks hanging out the bottom of the fabric. The cotton hugs your body and Bucky can’t help but blush at the sight. His mother would smack him over the head if she were here right now. 

Your shirt is lifted, one of your hands holding it high on your chest where Bucky can see a slip of under your breast peeking, the curve intriguing him. Your other hand is occupied rubbing a colorless liquid along your side, Bucky focuses his attention and realizes your rubbing along the scar he left you from your stitches. The bottle on the table has a label that read Vitamin E Natural Oil. 

Your fingers seem unbelievably soft and gentle as he watches them glide along your side, massaging the shiny oil into your smooth skin. You drop your sweatshirt and gather a bit more oil on your hands before rubbing it into your hips where Bucky can see the faintest stretch marks.

“Sorry ‘bout the scar. O-on your side, I mean.” Bucky stutters out, convincing himself that his body is warm from the shower he took. 

“It probably saved my life, so I can’t say I’m sorry about it.” You respond without turning around, as though you knew he was there watching you lather yourself in oil like the beginning of a softcore porn but didn’t mind him enjoying the show.

“What’s that stuff for, anyways?” Bucky asks as he gathers his old clothes back into his bag, folding each piece before placing the packed bag next to yours on the table. Your bag that clearly does not have folded clothes, only crinkled ones. Bucky empties your bag and folds your clothes for you before neatly packing it and closing the zippers.

“Helps fade scars.”

“Yeah, but why? Scars are cool.” 

“I suppose. I’d still like to lighten them a bit. So they look better, prettier.”

“You’re probably the most beautiful woman I’ve seen in the last few decades.”

“You don’t even remember most of the last few decades,” You try to joke.

“I mean it. It’s a compliment. It’s okay to accept and enjoy compliments, doll.” Bucky looks at you, forcing you to meet his eyes. You see in your peripheries as he puts the cap on the bottle of oil and places it next to your bag. A small smile adorns his face as he looks at you, and you can’t help but feel a knot form in your throat.

It’s been a long while since you’ve received any kind of love, whether that be physical, emotional, mental, or self. It’s an overwhelming feeling when someone who you aren’t actually the closest with gives you such a deep and personal compliment. 

Aren’t the closest with- this is your only friend he the only person you even know. The point is, being the most beautiful woman of the century is much different than having pretty hair or a good sense of humor.

You look away from him before the small bit of wetness can gather in your waterline.

“Which side of the bed do you prefer?” Bucky whispers softly to you, as to not break the safe atmosphere created by his sweet comment.

You clear your throat that now feels thick with tar, “The right.”

“Good. I prefer the left.”

[talesmaniac89]

Well, Hello There Stranger - Part 1

Pairing: Dean x Reader (established relationship)

Summary: Sam informs you that Dean’s suffering from temporary memory loss and has forgotten you. Yet, when you meet your boyfriend, it isn’t the cold eyes of a stranger that meets yours.

Triggers: Fear, Worry, Temporary Memory Loss (Next part is fluffy, I swear!)

Y/N = Your name | Y/E/C = Your eye colour

Read Part 2 Here

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“(Y/N), before you go in there… There’s something you should know,” Sam was standing at the door when you nearly threw yourself out of the car as soon as you’d parked the beat-up old truck next to Dean’s Impala. Your phone with the many missed calls from Sam as you’d chosen to focus on the road lying forgotten in the car, telling the same story the younger Winchester was clearly going to force you to stop to listen to.

The big guy had to physically reach out to stop you from trying to rush past him and into the room. Your earlier conversation with the younger Winchester still ringing in your ears and making you deaf to his words. 

“I know you’re a few hours away, but you need to come back to the motel (Y/N). Dean got hit, and… Shit...  Just come,”

Dean was in there, and something was wrong. Hell… You might not have been given enough information to know what was wrong, but that was all you needed. Your Dean, the man you loved more than life itself, was in trouble. There was no way you weren’t going to be by his side. 

“(Y/N)! Listen to me!” Sam stood in your way once more, stubbornly separating you from your boyfriend with just his body and the flimsy motel room door. It hurt you, physically and mentally, to hold your body still and stop from rushing past him to be with Dean. But, as you squared your jaw and set your pained, angry eyes in the youngest Winchester, your anger quickly faltered a little at the worry that has stained his hazel eyes. Quickly replaced with the whispers of soon to be heartbreak.

Oh God… No.

A thousand different scenarios were playing out behind the door and in your mind. Each was as true as the next until you could see what was hiding behind the thin motel room door with your own eyes. Like some twisted and cruel form of Schrodinger's Cat, with your heart playing the part of the feline. Unwilling to let you know whether your heart was broken or whole until you opened the door and confirmed yourself. 

“Dean’s alright… Or, well, he will be,” Sam hurried to add the words as an arm reached out to steady you. Clearly seeing the pain darken your (Y/E/C) eyes as your heart acted the part of Schrodinger's plaything; not whole nor shattered, just somewhere in the painfully grey middle. 

“Then just let me see him Sammy! I need to see him,” 

You could hear the barely controlled hysteria through the shake of your own voice as you looked up at the hunter who was forcefully holding you in place. Unwilling to let you run to your boyfriend’s side. Though your whole body, every fucking gasp of air, was crying out to him. Aching to be near him.

Yet, even with the promise of Dean’s life being safe, Sam didn’t release the hold on your shoulders. Nor did any of the worry in his eyes subside. Dean was alright, or would be, yet something was still wrong. And if Sam wasn’t worried about his brother’s life… That could only mean that worry was focused elsewhere.

“What’s wrong with him?” You added, much more quietly, as you realised the truth hiding behind the hesitant worry in Sam’s eyes. He wasn’t worried for Dean’s safety; he was worried about how you would react to whatever was on the other side of the door.

“Hear me out… Please, don’t think it’s as bad as it sounds…” Sam’s words were still hesitant. His hands finally dropping from your shoulders, now that he knew you weren’t going to run in guns blazing to save your boyfriend from whatever threat, real or imagined, that was out to hurt him.

“Spit it out Winchester,” You flinched at the harsh steely cut in your tone as soon as it left you. But you couldn’t control it, not until you could see that Dean was in fact alive and well with your own eyes. 

“The curse… It rebounded when we were trying to get it under lock and key,” The younger hunter’s voice barely rose above a whisper as he relayed the news to you. The knot in your stomach growing into a tangled mess that resembled the collection of protective charms on your side of the bed you shared with Dean. 

“Dean was hit…”

“What does that mean Sam?” Your words came out shaky and breathless as you tried to remember the finer details of the curse. The small, unassuming book that hid the curse had just one word printed on its cover in pretty cursive letters.

Memories. 

That was exactly it. The damned curse stole people’s memories. In the back of your mind, empty eyes and vacant souls stared back at you from the many lives the curse had already stolen. Painting a warped image of the man on the other side of the door. Forest green eyes empty, like a long-forgotten field left to wither. Unable to even remember his own name.

“It’s… Not as bad as it sounds. The curse didn’t manage to fully work, it’s just some backlash. Cas says it should correct itself within the next 24 to 48 hours. At first it was correcting itself faster, but it’s slowed down and...” Sam said, speaking over the broken sob that threatened to explode into the empty motel parking lot. 

“He just… (Y/N), Dean can’t remember anything from the last four years,”

The worry in Sam’s eyes suddenly made sense. Four years ago, Dean Winchester didn’t have the faintest clue who you were. You’d met him on a hunt, two years and five months ago, the two of you were soon coming up on your two-year anniversary. Two years of blissful happiness by the side of your soldier. So, that meant, the man hiding behind that door, your Dean Winchester, didn’t have the faintest clue who you were. Of what the two of you shared. 

You’d been discarded by his mind. The picture-perfect memories you shared were nothing more than a crumpled and faded polaroid to the hunter, with your smiling face scratched out and forcefully removed from the equation.

He wouldn’t remember the quiet nights spent wrapped in each other's arms soothing away the pain of another lost friend or ghosted kisses over still forming bruises. All the empty promises of an apple pie life after you finally managed to get rid of all the evil bastards. He’d have forgotten all your inside jokes, all your little shared quirks, the comforting morning routine you’d easily slipped into as you woke up by his side every day. All of it, every little memory that was more precious to you than life itself, was lost to him. 

Dean couldn’t remember you. He couldn’t remember ever meeting you, or… Loving you. 

“Oh…” Was all you managed to push out, suddenly unsure if you wanted to enter the small motel room. If what would meet you were the eyes of a stranger. 

A man who’d look at you like you were just another piece of a puzzle he couldn’t make fit. Another case. Would you be able to deal with watching his green eyes, that usually burned like a forest fire, look at you with the blank disinterest of glancing over a stranger he’d pass by on the road? 

“But! It’s only for a day or two. Castiel is sure his memories will return, and soon. Hell, he’s already showing signs of getting better. Before you came… It was 14 years,” Sam’s eyes were pained as memories of earlier hours, while he waited for you to join them, sprung unwanted up in his warm eyes. So much had happened in those fourteen years. And with Dean’s memories gone, it’d been up to Sammy to be the strong one. To weather every question. 

“Things were returning faster, but still… The memories started slowing down at around the six-year mark and now…”

“I’m sorry Sam,” You whispered, unable to think up any words of comfort that wouldn’t just add to the man you considered a brother’s hurt. 

“Don’t be… It’s, hell, this is going to sound kinda mean, but… It’s kind of funny,” Sam gave a choked laugh. A small sad smile replacing earlier worry, though you could still see some pain in his eyes. 

“Funny?” For a second you worried the curse backfiring had led to some unwanted side effects as you gave Sam an incredulous look. 

“I mean, yeah, at first it sucked. Not knowing if he’d get better. But now… He’s not really digging into the future or asking loads of serious questions. He’s just making outdated early 2000s jokes and asking if the Office is still on or if Led Zeppelin has made a comeback,” Sam said, a tired whispered laugh betraying the mixed emotions behind the words. 

“So… Dean knows that he… He knows?” You stopped yourself from vocalising the amnesia. Unable to deal with how just the thought of his forgotten love for you sent sharp shots of pain through your very core.

“Yeah, we told him. I couldn’t just let him be. I mean, he didn’t know who Cas was at first, but I needed to make him understand that he was a friend, and that he’d lost his memories,” Sam said with a shrug. “I just… I didn’t want you to go in there not knowing. He will remember you (Y/N), it’ll just take a little while longer,”

“Thanks Sammy, I’ll be fine… Just knowing he’s healthy and that he’ll be right as rain soon is already enough,” You sighed, steeling your heart for what waited in the motel room at the same time as your body visibly calmed down. The tension that had rested there since you jumped in your car and broke every speed limit to make it to Dean’s side finally gone. 

Sure, it would probably still hurt a bit to see no recognition in Dean’s eyes. Or feel the warmth of his love seeping through you, like you always did when his eyes met yours. But it was only temporary. You were a big girl, and you’d get through this bump in the road as well. No use crying or screaming, it was only a few hours, it wouldn’t hurt… Not too bad at least.

Who were you kidding? 

It would hurt like hell. But it would hurt a lot more not to be by his side. Not when he needed you there. Even if he didn’t know it right now. Even if it wasn’t temporary, you still would’ve stayed. You’d help him make new memories. After all, the best part about your memories was making them with him.

“If you’re sure…” You shook away Sam’s hesitant question with a small shaky smile. Choosing to reach for the door instead of letting him talk you out of it. No, you weren’t sure. Shit, you were basically never sure about anything. As a hunter, over two thirds of your life was uncertainty. But you wouldn’t let that stop you. 

Not when the person on the other side of the door was your Dean Winchester.

Taking a careful breath to swallow the sob that threatened to act as a knock and signal your arrival you let the cold motel doorknob ground you. Mentally preparing yourself to meet his blank eyes head on and wait…

Wait for your Dean to come back home. To come back to you.

Next Part

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Dean Winchester Tags: @ria132love​

[itmighthavebeenintentional]

Walk Me Home - Ch 9

Summary: Twenty-four years ago, Kimberly Harper met a boy who changed the course of her entire life before up and leaving one night. She spent years moving past the memories, building a stable, satisfying career as professor of folklore and mythology at the local university. Then the accidents start, and she’s forced to seek help among her hunter contacts. All it takes is a knock on her office door to send Kimber’s carefully built emotional walls crumbling to the ground.

Featuring: Teen Winchesters, high school romance, reunions, misunderstandings, high intensity emotional turmoil, Dean’s love of pie, Dean being adorable, Sam being adorable and maybe a bit nosy eventually, much group adorkable-ness, show-style investigation, mention of our favorite werewolf, gratuitous and obvious love of fall, DID I MENTION ROMANCE, fluff, smut, tension. 

Warnings: Show level violence, show level parental neglect (let’s not John bash, I’m just saying), show-style witchcraft, show-level mental manipulation, stalking, bit of angst, sexual content (higher than show level),swearing, general yearning

Word Count: 3168

Author’s Note: Coming up on the end. Hope you guys have enjoyed this ride as much as I did. One chapter to go after this. All my thanks to @mskathywriteswords​ , @fangirlxwritesx67​, and @cracksinthewalls​ for all your magnificent help. Also, random, the theme song for this chapter is “These Dreams,” by Heart. Just for fun.

Keep in Mind: There are a lot of flashbacks. I tried to write current events in present tense and flashbacks in past tense. Here’s hoping I got everything right!

Please read/heed the warnings. 18+ ONLY. 

In Case You Missed It: Ch 1 | Ch 2 | Ch 3 | Ch 4 | Ch 5 | Ch 6 | Ch 7 | Ch 8 ItMightHaveBeenIntentional’s Masterlist

Chapter 9

Kimber’s hands fly up, clenching on the wrist in front of her throat, and the blade twitches in warning. Pain stings the side of her neck, her fingers contract, and a trickle of warmth drips down to her shoulder.

Before she can speak, Dean is in front of them, gun drawn and face murderous. 

“Let her go.”

Laughter, broken and mocking, shakes against her back. Kimber’s vision grays at the edges, and she forces herself to slow her breathing. She focuses on the sting of the cut, slamming her eyes shut to block out the fear she can read in Dean’s eyes. 

“She’s mine, can’t let her go. Just got her. Been lookin’ for so long. Her blood is mine, that’s the rule.” The witch’s voice goes from rough to reedy and back, pitch wobbling all over the place. “Gonna spill this pretty blood. You’re a hunter, you can help. Like she helped the other hunter. Spilled our blood. Took...took...”

Kimber shudders unconsciously, and the witch yanks her left arm back, fingernails digging into the flesh just above her elbow. A strangled yelp escapes her throat, and Kimber bites down on her lip. 

Breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

“Back up,” the witch barks suddenly. Dean’s eyes flash, nostrils flaring, but he doesn’t move.

“Ain’t happening, asshole. Let her go. I’m not sayin’ it again.” The hammer clicks on Dean’s gun, and the witch adjusts his grip, pulling her more firmly in front of him. The knife presses again, slicing deeper this time, and Kimber‘s focus slips. The trickle becomes a steadier stream, and she opens her eyes to see Dean’s cheek twinge above his clenched jaw. 

He never lowers his aim as he steps carefully back. Kimber is shoved forward, knuckles white on the man’s wrist. Her heart thumps painfully against her ribs as she racks her brain.

I know this, I know what to do, I can get out of this, I can, I just-

“Good boy,” the witch says. The manic glee in his voice sets Kimber’s nerves on edge, clearing a little of the panic from her thoughts. “So good at taking directions. Much better than her. Shoulda taken you up on the roof, she coulda watched you jump. Would’ve been fun. So...fun.”

White-hot fury lances through her fear, burning the last traces of it from her mind, and she remembers exactly how to get out of this hold. She widens her eyes, mouth tight, staring a hole at Dean. It takes a second for him to turn his glaring attention from the witch, but he finally meets Kimber’s gaze.

She has never wished so hard in her life to be a telepath as she does right now.

Please understand, Dean, she thinks with all her might, her eyes flicking down and to the side before meeting his again. Please be ready. 

She can distract the witch, can get out of the way, but she can’t kill him, and she has no idea if he has another spell ready. They’ve got one chance.

“Gonna have some more fun with you two. Messy fun. Had fun with her friends, so many stairs, so many staples.” He holds the last word out, elongating it, and the hairs on Kimber’s neck stand on end. “Make you have fun with each other, gonna get messy. Don’t need a hex bag this time, can just-”

Kimber jerks down on the knife-wielding hand, pulling it towards her left hip. She ducks her head back and shoves her shoulder into the witch’s chest, knocking him off kilter. Her right hand arcs back, completing the circle and shoving the witch’s hand, knife and all, straight into his side. He throws his head back, howling, and a deafening bang fills the room. Pain explodes in Kimber’s ears, and the witch drops, a bullet hole in the center of his forehead.

Kimber blinks, her head spinning, and then Dean is in front of her, his hands holding the sides of her face steady. His mouth opens, he’s speaking, but she can’t hear anything over the clanging in her ears. 

Her eyes stray down to the body on the floor, waiting for it to move. They need to leave, need to get away while they can, but she can’t make her legs work right. Her knees are locked, and the room is swaying. 

No, that’s not right. She’s swaying. She should probably sit.

Then she’s on the bed, and Dean kneels down in front of her, pressing a cloth to the side of her neck. She sucks in a breath, and the pain shocks her brain back into focus. He speaks again, but she can’t understand him. 

“We have to go, he’s going to get back up-” But Dean holds up a hand, shaking his head and frowning. He opens his mouth again, sucking in a breath like he’s going to shout, but then stops. He lifts her hand to the cloth on her neck, indicating for her to hold pressure while he rises. 

He glances around and snatches a pad of paper and pen from the bedside table. He scribbles quickly and holds the pad up in front of her. Her eyebrows lift in amazement as she reads “witch killing bullets.” 

“Seriously?” He nods, then flips the paper and scribbles again.

“Not used to gunfire?” the pad says. She shakes her head, then immediately regrets the action. The room spins, and then Dean is supporting her, steadying her before she hits the floor. He holds her upright for a few moments until she regains her balance, then he waves to get her attention.

He tilts his head towards the door, eyebrows lifted. She closes her eyes, concentrating, and forces her legs to cooperate, pushing up until she’s able to walk unsteadily, leaning hard against Dean. She feels colder than the seasonal temperature calls for, and she shivers hard against him.

Shock, she realizes. Yeah, I’m pretty sure…

The next thing she knows, they’re in Dean’s car, and she’s leaning against the window, her cheek chilled and damp on the glass. Dean’s jacket is draped over her, and she can make out the rumble of the engine and Dean’s voice, responding to someone she can’t hear.

Phone? her worn out brain offers. She yawns, and a dull throb ripples through her ears instead of the usual popping. She winces, and a warm hand slides over hers. 

“Can you hear me, sweetheart?” 

“Yeah,” she says slowly, working her jaw carefully against the ache in her ear canals. “But it’s kind of muffled. Am I gonna need a hearing aid now?”

“No, honey,” he sighs, his relief mixed with exasperation. “One gunshot near your head, you’ll be fine. Wasn’t even a high enough caliber for concussive damage.”

“Oh.” She thinks for a minute, her brain still a little sluggish. “Can I go home, now, though? Because I’d really like to change clothes.” To her growing dismay, she realizes that one side of her is splattered with blood and...something else.

Not to mention her own blood staining her shoulder. Her shirt is definitely beyond saving.

“Sam, check out the motel, see if you can find a car or anything. Maybe we’ll get a clue about who this asshole actually was. I’ll check back in with you.” He disconnects the call and glances at her out of the corner of his eye.

“Think maybe we should get you some stitches for that cut.”

“I have butterfly bandages and pajamas at home,” she counters, feeling mulish. It has been a hell of a night, a hell of a week, and a hell of a month. Her stalker is dead, she’s feeling more disgusting by the second, and she wants to sleep for a year, at least. After the world’s hottest, longest shower, that is.

Dean frowns, his eyebrows drawing down as he prepares to dig his heels in. That’s when Kimber pulls out her trump card.

“I’ve got a Sara Lee deep dish apple pie in the freezer. Can have it hot out of the oven in about an hour.” She wants to laugh as Dean’s foot presses down on the accelerator, but she settles instead for leaning her leaden head on his shoulder and letting her eyes drift shut. The last thing she feels is his arm pulling her just a little closer.

“I got you.”

“I know.”

…

When they arrive at Kimber’s house, the first order of business is a shower (after putting the pie in the oven, of course). True to her earlier promise, Kimber scrubs every inch of Dean’s back, wishing distantly that she was in a better frame of mind to enjoy the experience. Really, though, neither of them are up for any more than tired smiles and rinsing of suds. 

She throws on the jeans and tshirt that are lying on top of her hamper, too thrashed to search for anything else. When they reconvene in the kitchen, the oven still shows eighteen minutes left on the timer. Though Dean took pains during their shower to carefully clean the cut on her neck, he insists on fully inspecting it in better lighting. She’s too worn out to argue, so she drags out her first aid kit and drops into a chair.

She’s surprised at how comfortable the silence between them is. He cleans the cut again with peroxide this time before smearing a thin line of antibiotic ointment. She thinks he mutters something about “dirty witches,” but she’s so tired at this point she doesn’t completely catch it. Her hearing is more or less back to normal, although she keeps having to shake off the sensation that there’s water in her ears.

“Sam’s back at the motel, checking to see if the guy had a car, anything to give us an idea of what his damage was.”

She nods slowly, thoughts swirling in one too many directions. “He said...something about another hunter, me helping another hunter. I checked my notes, though, I don’t…”

“He said a lot of crazy shit, guy was unhinged.” Dean’s voice is hard, his eyes tight as he places butterfly strips along the side of her neck. “Probably not the best idea to revisit all of it just now.”

Gonna have some more fun with you two. Messy fun.

Kimber’s stomach lurches, and saliva pools in the back of her mouth.

“Don’t you throw up on me, I just got clean. I’m not missing out on pie just ‘cause you can’t keep the contents of your stomach to yourself.”

She laughs, just as he intended, broken out of her toxic train of thought. 

“You’re right, I know you’re right. There’s much better things to think about tonight. We can go over all the gory details in the morning.” She raises her hand to stifle a yawn, and Dean catches her wrist, pulling her arm out straight to examine it. His eyebrows lower as he frowns at the line of crescent-shaped gouges on her arm just above her elbow.

“That was where he grabbed my arm. I guess his nails dug in?”

Dean actually clicks his tongue against his teeth and reaches for the peroxide again. When he glances up at her, she can’t hide her amusement from his observant eyes.

“What?” he asks, indignant. “Human fingernails are some of the filthiest things on the planet. And that guy was a witch, no telling what kinds of nasty he’s been diggin’ in. Now hush.”

“Yes, sir.”

The timer for the pie goes off a few minutes later, and Kimber makes the executive decision that a huge slice of shared apple pie with ice cream is more than enough of a balanced dinner for the two of them. She rinses off the plate in the sink while Dean cleans up the scraps from their impromptu doctoring. She sets the plate in the drying rack and turns to find him watching her, one corner of his mouth curled fondly.

“Bed?”

“Bed.”

She excuses herself to the bathroom to brush her teeth and slip into something a little more comfortable. She finishes by wrapping her bathrobe around her middle and tying the belt. When she enters the bedroom, she finds her comforter in a discreet pile on the far side of the room, and Dean reclining on the sheets, clad in nothing but his boxer briefs.

She opens her closet and pulls a spare blanket down from the top shelf. Dean slides off the bed, reaching out to take the blanket when his phone rings from the bedside table. She nods at the phone and shakes the blanket out while he answers.

“Sam found the guy’s car. Wants to know if you want to come check it out.” Dean raises his eyebrows at Kimber. She straightens and looks him dead in the eyes, then unties her robe and lets it drop from her shoulders to puddle around her feet.

His eyes widen, and his voice turns distracted. “Gonna pass tonight, Sam, but you save some of those juicy clues for us tomorrow, ‘kay?”

He hangs up, sets his phone on the bedside table, and turns the covers down. Then he throws himself onto the bed and holds his arms out to Kimber, his eyes sparkling.

“I have to say, Dr. Harper, I never imagined a distinguished college professor would own a set of pajamas like that.”

She switches off the light and slides into bed, her back fitting to his front, the last piece of a puzzle locking into place. His hands begin to roam over her fleece pants, exploring the soft material. She yawns again, letting her head loll back to rest against his collarbone.

“Gotta tell me where you managed to find Sasquatch pajamas; I know exactly what I need to get Sam for Christmas.”

She giggles through another yawn, then turns in his embrace. In the dim light of her room, the green of his eyes is lost to the darkness, but the faint smile on his lips...that she can see just fine. 

Their kiss is slow, soft, and sleepy, and she allows herself two more before settling into the crook of his neck. 

“Dean?”

“Mmm.” His voice is just as gone as hers. His fingers, having found their way under the edge of her pajama top, are stroking over the small of her back as he drifts off.

“Is this what it’s always like for you and Sam? For hunters?”

The quiet stretches on long enough that she thinks he’s fallen asleep, but then he shifts and clears his throat.

“Sometimes. Sometimes it’s better; easier cases, less gun shots, maybe a spell or two thrown around. But you know the lore, you work with hunters. It’s usually a lot worse.” He leaves his sentence there, obviously not willing to elaborate at the moment. 

“On the other hand,” he adds a minute later, his voice thick with fatigue and another emotion she’s sure she’d be able to place if she were properly awake, “I don’t get to end every hunt like this, so that definitely counts for something.”

It definitely does, she thinks. 

…

“You gotta pull the knife-hand towards your outside hip, then swing your head and shoulder at the same time, hit me hard as you can,” Dean coaxed patiently. They had spent most of sixth period study hall actually studying today, so Dean decided they needed to work on something else after school. 

During their second tutoring session, Kimber learned that despite his willingness to be tutored by a girl, he chafed a little at the concept of receiving said tutoring without offering anything in return, so he suggested showing her some self-defense moves.

“In case the star quarterback ever gets any ideas that you’re not cool with,” he grinned. She rolled her eyes but accepted his proposition anyway. It meant coming into close, physical contact with Dean, for one. And it never hurt to be prepared, after all.

They went through the move again, Dean holding a stick to her neck in place of the knife. He made her work through it until she could pull off the maneuver without the sting of bark on her skin, until she managed to jab the stick hard enough against his side for him to wince in real discomfort.

The pleased smile he turned on her as he clutched his ribs made her toes tingle.

“I don’t see me using this kind of a move anytime soon, but it’s definitely good to know,” she admitted, picking up her denim jacket. The days had begun cooling off lately, fall making its presence abundantly known, and she shivered in the breeze as she zipped all the way up to her collar.

“You never know,” he agreed. He picked up her backpack, hanging it over his shoulder. “You could be set upon by anything: a pickpocket, a bank robber, a lone vampire looking for a snack. There’s no telling when that move could help you.”

“I doubt the vampire part, or even the bank robber, but yeah. I know a couple of people who’ve been mugged who could’ve used your expert training.” He slung his free arm around her shoulder, and they headed across the park.

“There are all sorts of critters out there that could creep up on you,” he said, his eyes sparkling mischievously. “Vamps are just one of a hundred, and one of the ones most likely to go for the neck.”

“One of a hundred,” she repeated. She was intrigued by the mention of monsters, had always loved reading old ghost stories and legends, but surely there couldn’t be that many monster stories in the world.

“I’ll trade you stories for pie,” he said. She shot him a skeptical glance, and he gave her an exaggerated, stern face. “I never joke about pie, and I know stories that would make your hair curl. Satisfaction guaranteed.”

“Okay,” she finally agreed. “But we’re talking at least three stories for one piece of pie.”

“Two stories and another self-defense lesson.”

Later on, as they stood outside her front door, she smiled shyly up at him, her cheeks warm despite the drop in temperature.

“I would have gotten you the pie just for another self-defense lesson,” she admitted, marveling at how he made her feel timid and brave all at once. His thumb brushed over her cheekbone, tucking a stray strand of hair out of his way. He pressed a gentle kiss to her mouth, not even long enough for her eyes to flutter shut. His smile, when he straightened, was soft and genuine.

“I would have traded the stories for the same.”

…

Kimber wakes, turning in Dean’s arms. It’s still dark out, nothing is out of place. She settles against him, her lips pressing against his collar bone.

“‘S’matter?” His words are slurred, muffled by her hair, and his arms tighten for a moment. She can feel the stretch rippling down the length of him, and that hidden spot in her chest spreads out, sending tendrils of soothing warmth through every part of her.

“Not a thing. Goodnight, Dean.”

“Night, sweetheart.”

…

Chapter 10

[themummersfolly]

I will probably not enter this in the contest I wrote it for, but I’m proud of it anyway.

@aerialsquid, @ardenrosegarden, you will probably like this. It involves ghosts and extinct cephalopods.

The Ordovician Testament

           I guess it all started the day we opened a new fracture at the Dakota site. I was a consulting geologist, monitoring pressure gradients in the wellbore while they pumped slurry in to widen the crack.

           “We’re about ready to start extracting,” the site manager told me. I nodded.

           “You know what the downside is to this process? No fossils.”

           “What, like dinosaurs?”

           “No, no, we’re in the wrong place for that. See right here,” I pointed to a chart, a map of the wellbore. “We’re right on the edge of the Ordovician shale. The fossils in this layer would be shellfish, trilobites, corals…”

           “You collect ‘em?”

           “Sort of. But that’s only part of it. Think of what we can learn from them, the picture they paint of the way the world was during that time…”

           I could see the manager’s eyes glazing over. He didn’t care that much about geology, as long as it wasn’t working against him. As long as the well kept producing.

           At last, the oil started to flow.

           “Hell yeah!” The manager grinned. “This is a good one!”

           I grinned back. The company had gone out on a limb with this site; my team had been pushing for it, and it had paid off.

           I was still thinking about the nice fat end-of-year bonus we’d be getting when my vision started to change. Everything in the monitoring station took on an electric glow. I blinked. It didn’t go away; in fact, it was getting stronger. A faint tension appeared far behind my eyes.

           “Hey, Greg, I’m gonna punch out early today. I think I’m getting a migraine.”

           The manager glanced back at me. “Yeah, sure. We should be good for a while. Be careful.”

           Halfway down the highway, the pain set in. I pulled into the first motel I saw, managed to hold it together long enough to book in, stagger to my room, and collapse.

-------

           To this day I haven’t had as bad a headache as that one. I was in that motel room for three days: two of them trying to fight off the pain, the third too wrung-out to move. When my team members called to check on me, they told me to go to the hospital. If I had been thinking clearly, I would have.

           As bad as it was, the pain wasn’t the worst part. Whenever I fell asleep, I saw colors. Bright, vivid, solid colors, blinding primaries, rapid-fire pastels, swirling psychedelic neons. It sounds nice, but at the time it was like being kicked repeatedly in the brain. My head was full of colors that gave me no peace and made no sense.

           And the mood swings – one minute I was bawling my eyes out, the next, I was ready to rip the lamp out of the wall and throw it across the room. At one point I was up for about twenty-four hours straight, bouncing from rage to depression to manic glee, faintly aware than there was something wrong with me.

           About 3 am on the third day of my stay, the pain broke enough to get a coherent thought through, and that thought was that I might have been poisoned. My next thought, which occurred maybe forty minutes later, was that the worst of it was over and I might as well try to get some sleep.

           This time, I dreamt of an ocean.

-------

           I didn’t have any more symptoms after that, although as soon as I was up I made an appointment to get checked out. Everything came back normal, and the doctor gave me a referral to a neurologist if I kept having migraines. I didn’t call, but I held on to the number. The pain and hallucinations were gone, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that this wasn’t over.

           In the following days and weeks, I kept coming back to that thought. Every now and then, my head would fill up with colors again. And I kept dreaming about oceans. Not like I was at the beach or sailing or scuba diving; I was disembodied, submerged in a sea I didn’t recognize. When I was awake, I would get flashes of sights and smells, like when a memory jogs, but in response to the most random things. And I was remembering things I had never seen.

           Come to think of it, I was having a lot of intrusive thoughts, and I had a growing sense that I wasn’t alone. In the middle of the night, I would wake up thinking something had brushed past me; a search of the house would show it was empty. At work, on the long drive to the site – I felt like if I looked over my shoulder fast enough, I would see… something.

           “I feel like there’s another mind inside my head,” I said.

           “Maybe you should see a doctor,” offered Greg.

           I didn’t really want to see a shrink. But when invisible tentacles wrapped around me in the shower, I decided to bite the bullet.

           “Stress,” the psychiatrist said after talking to me. She suggested I take some time off work. But she wanted to schedule a follow-up, soon. She was worried.

           I had some vacation time, and the nearest airport was advertising cheap flights to Mexico. If I was having a nervous breakdown, might as well have it in Puerto Vallarta with a drink in my hand. On the flight the intrusive thoughts seemed to slack off; but during the final approach, when I looked out the window and saw the Pacific, my vision exploded with purple and teal. Ocean, ocean, ocean! I had to reach for the airsickness bag.

-------

           Whatever this is, it’s connected to the sea. I spent the first day of my trip lying in my hotel room with the blinds drawn, going over and over the past weeks. I wasn’t in any pain, but the thing in my head – I was increasingly sure that it was something separate from me – whatever it was had gotten more agitated since I arrived in PV. This all started in a rented room like this… Had anything unusual happened around that time? Did I eat something, or interact with anyone who acted strange? No, the only thing that had happened was we’d opened a new fracture at the wellbore…

           I sat up straight. That was the day this had started. Either that headache had done me permanent damage, or oil wasn’t the only thing that had come up the wellbore.

           I squeezed my eyes shut, shouted mentally at the source of the colors and visions. Hey! What the hell are you?

-------

           A neighboring hotel had a hypnotist doing nightly shows. Expert in multiple personality disorder, said his brochure. Underneath, it listed another of his specialties: contacting past lives.

           This is insane, I thought as I knocked on his door.

           I’d called ahead, asking if I could meet with him privately, since I didn’t want to work out my issues in front of a crowd. The fee was a little steep, but he sounded intrigued by my symptoms and offered to meet me before a show.

           If he was a quack, at least he was professional about it. He explained up front what would and would not happen and what might happen, and then he put me into a trance.

           You are completely safe, nothing can hurt you. You allow all thoughts to exist. You float through all levels of consciousness like a warm, peaceful…

           OCEAN.

           I was disembodied, submerged in sunlit waters. Beside me rose a coral reef; below it spread meadows and forests of seaweed. Sea-pens and sea-lilies sprouted everywhere. Below me, rustling through mud and algae –

           Trilobites?!

           They were trilobites. Little Asaphus kowalewskii with its eyestalks – I had a fossil of that one in my collection. And a Paraceraurus, all horns and spines, blindingly iridescent.

           And off in the murky distance, the outline of a gigantic, drifting cone.

           This sea hadn’t existed for over 400 million years.

-------

           “When I snap my fingers, you will return to the waking world.”

           On cue, I opened my eyes. The hypnotist stared at me, his face sweaty. His assistant had her phone out, poised to make a call.

           “You should have told me you are an epileptic!” he started.

           “What?”

           “When you were in the trance – you slumped down, you were making faces. When I spoke to you, it was like you couldn’t understand me. You tried to speak and a noise like an animal came out! Do you remember anything?”

           “Yeah, I… I was in an ocean. Like the one in my dreams, only I could see it clearly this time.”

           The hypnotist stared at me, chewing his lip. “Can you describe this ocean?”

           “Shallow, lots of light coming through the water. It was full of extinct creatures.” If I concentrated, I could picture it clearly.

           “Extinct creatures – perhaps a manifestation of your oneness with all life, past and present –”

           “No, no, a real ocean with an ecosystem that’s been extinct for millions of years. Like the fossil record came alive, like I travelled back in time or something.”

           He and his assistant exchanged glances. “How are you feeling now?”

           “Okay – a little loopy. It’s been a while since I’ve eaten.”

           He motioned to his assistant. She put down her phone, dug in her purse, handed me a candy bar.

           “I’ve never seen a case like yours,” he said. “If you’re willing, I’d like to see you after tonight’s show. There are a few things I can try that might make sense of this.”

-------

           The hypnotist’s assistant walked me down to the hotel restaurant; I think she was afraid I would have another episode on the way. Once I had eaten, I stretched out on a couch in the lobby, but didn’t sleep. If I let my mind wander, I could see subdued colors at the edges of my vision, could feel tentacles drifting loosely around me.

           The hypnosis show was over around 10 pm. When the last of the audience had filtered out, I went in for my second appointment.

-------

           “You are completely safe and at peace. You are alone in a comfortable room. No one who enters this room can harm you.”

           “Okay.” In my mind’s eye, the room looked a lot like the hypnotist’s hotel room.

           “There is a knock on the door. It is the source of the visions you’ve been having.”

           There was water outside the window, ocean water. A school of finless, heavy-headed fish swam by.

           “Remember: nothing that enters this room can harm you. You are completely safe. You open the door and invite your guest inside.”

           I did just that.

           “What do you see?”

           “It’s – it’s an ammonoid. No, it’s an older species. An Ordovician nautiloid.” Awake, I might have been scared. But in the trance it was no worse than coming face to face with a noisy neighbor. Big eyes, with square pupils like a goat’s, stared at me over a mass of gently swaying tentacles; behind them, a shell curved away in a loose spiral. It drifted in, swimming through the room as if still in the water.

           “You are completely safe. You can ask it any question you want.”

           So I did. “What are you?”

           The creature’s eyes turned purple. On the mantle covering the end of its shell, a rippling hounds-tooth pattern appeared.

           “It’s changing color. I think – I think it’s trying to communicate.”

           “You are one with your guest. You feel its thoughts and feelings as your own.”

           He was right. Desire to be understood. Identity. The colors, each with a concept attached to them.

           “It’s the name of its species,” I realized. “Purple is happy, blessed. The other pattern – it’s more complex. I don’t quite get it. It’s one of the Blessed Somethings.” Another wash of thought. “It has a question for me.”

           “What is the question?”

           “It wants to know if I’m – if I’m a squid? A nautiloid? No, it’s asking if I’m a person, like a sentient being. Yes, yes I am. Are you?”

           A pale blue swirl of annoyance. Of course I am.

           “You can ask your guest any question.”

           I mulled it over. “How did you get here? Inside my head, I mean.”

           In response, a riot of colors and patterns.

           “I don’t understand. Can you show me?”

           One long, smooth feeler reached out to the window and touched the glass. I followed it and looked out.

           The seaweed was gone, and most of the algal mat. All the coral had turned gray. Overhead, the surface of the water creaked and groaned: ice. The sea was cold and sour.

           “Ordovician extinction,” I said.

           Death. Empty shells. Only the mindless drift-feeders were left.

           The new fracture had been near the top edge of the Ordovician shale. “You were trapped there. We let you out.”

           Affirmation. Confused affirmation.

           “What do you want?”

           The colors turned muddy. It had no idea; it hadn’t asked for any of this.

           “Can I talk to you again sometime?”

           Affirmation, and relief.

-------

           There were six days left in my vacation. I decided to spend them learning to meditate.

           The hypnotist offered several theories about what was going on, mainly “past life regression” and “ancestral memories.” My theory, and the one I was going with, was that we had somehow turned loose an ancient ghost, and I was being haunted. Actually, it wasn’t all that frightening once I came to that conclusion. The whole thing had been accidental; far from being malicious, the thing in my head seemed apologetic when I told it all the trouble it had caused.

           It wasn’t hard to reach a state of mind where I could talk to my guest, as I’d started to call it. Before the flight home, we’d even worked out a way to share space in my waking mind without causing problems, and my strange dreams had stopped. The biggest hurdle was communication. My guest used a visual language of colors and patterns; emotions and simple nouns and verbs were easy, but more complicated concepts tended to get lost in translation. Playing around with the paint program on my computer, I found out I could transcribe our conversations… sort of. And when I got home, I pulled out my fossil collection to show it.

           Stone. I was showing my guest a fossil ammonite shell. When I closed my eyes, I held it with tentacles instead of fingers, turning it over and examining it. Old. Very old.

           “Millions of years younger than you. From the Jurassic period.”

           City-builders, too?

           “What?”

           Nautiloids, cities, construction. Descendants build, maybe?

           I sat back, mulling over the images and color-words. “Wait – you build cities?”

           Not self. Too small. Nautiloid-kind, city-builders. City-dwellers.

           “City-builders, like a civilization? 400 million years ago, in the ocean?”

           Annoyance and confusion. How was this a question? It was surprised enough that I was a land-dweller.

           “We never found evidence of intelligent life before us – none that we recognized.”

           Confusion. Denial. It wasn’t possible, there had been so many of them all over the world.

           “Maybe we didn’t know what we were looking at. Or maybe… it’s been almost half a billion years. Not much survives that long.”

           Denial. Denial. But then: Understanding. Yes, time eats all.

           Red was the color of Nautiloid grief. Red like an ancient sunset filled my mind for the rest of the evening.

-------

           “Will you show me?” I asked one day. “I want to know about them. About your kind, what they were like.”

           I closed my eyes and saw them. My guest’s family, or something like a family. They were the group that had raised it, but none of them were genetically related. Many weren’t even the same species; as I saw more and asked questions, I learned that my guest was one of several intelligent nautiloid species. It showed me straight cones like wizards’ hats; loose curlicues; tight curlicues; talkative, half-naked little things like cuttlefish darting around. Not only had they existed at the same time, but they used the same color languages, lived and worked in mixed groups, raised their young together. Their civilization was founded around the idea that each species was necessary to the lives of the others.

           My guest showed me things it had seen, things it had heard of. The civilization of the nautiloids had lasted nearly a million years, in all its various iterations and divisions. I saw shining cities of gel and silica stretching up the walls of continental shelves; I saw the ocean floor vents around which their technology centered. Household items of cast cement and water-fired clay, delicate metallurgy that had long since corroded away to nothing. They had domesticated the giant drifting orthocones, they hunted the arthropods that tried to prey on them. They had learned to live in all corners of the ocean and at all depths. They had even begun to explore the barren, alien land.

           But then the cold had come. And not every species had been able to weather it.

           Food animals disappeared first. Then disease began to spread as hunger and cold took their toll. Those that lived in the shallow reefs suffered most. Attempts to build shelters were too late; within a few years, whole segments of society were extinct.

           Symbiosis. If the surface-people do not farm, the depths-people cannot make. If the egg-raisers do not nurture, the city-makers cannot build.

           “Did anybody make it through?”

           Unknown. Maybe. Not self, but maybe others.

-------

           They had a written language, if you can call it that. My guest taught me. Strands of colored fiber, knotted, strung with shells and beads. We had to make a lot of substitutions; some of the modern materials weren’t exactly right. But a nautiloid would have found it readable. My nautiloid did.

           I would sit up late into the night, stringing yarn together while my guest dictated. It was a book, but it felt like a rosary, like a prayer that could be handled. Do not forget us. We lived. We mattered.

           I had gotten used to my guest. It had a name for me; I don’t know what it meant, but it looked like dark blue tie-dye with a spray of stars. I had a name for it: Shelby Squidsworth. We would talk about geology, the species that had come after the nautiloids, what might come after humanity. It was fascinated by life on land.

           When the book was finished, we celebrated with a trip to the beach.

           Descendants? It wanted to know. I sat on the sand, drying in the sun.

           “Your descendants, you mean? Do you have any?”

           Maybe. An image of my Jurassic-era ammonite. All stone, maybe. All empty.

           “There are still creatures like you today.” I concentrated on an image of a nautilus, of squid and octopi. “They’re not as smart as you guys, not in a city-building, history-recording sort of way. Not that we know of. But they might get there.”

Maybe. Images of its family group; it missed them.

I dug my toes through the sand. “Did your people believe in an afterlife?”

           Yes. A whirl of colors; I didn’t grasp the meaning, but it seemed to comfort my guest. I wondered why it was with me and not there; quietly, I hoped, but it noticed.

           No burial. No rites.

           “If you got a proper funeral, would you be able to rest?”

           Maybe. Hope.

           “Tell me what I need to do.”

-------

           400 million years ago, when the nautiloids laid their dead to rest, they would separate the body from the shell. In deep-water countries, the shell would be painted and displayed by the family group; in shallow waters, where my guest was from, it was floated on the surface or pushed onto land, to dry and crumble in the sun. The body was ritually eaten by family and close friends, so that their loved one could remain with them in a way and strengthen them.

           Old custom. Dawn-of-time custom.

           “My people don’t really approve of cannibalism.”

           Amusement. Different species. Have comfort.

           I bought a big ceramic shell online, and about a pound of calamari from the store. It was as close as I could get; the spirit of the thing was what mattered. I ate the calamari alone, in silence. I had the sense that my guest ate, too, for all the other nautiloids who had died alone. Then, with the ceramic shell on a little raft I’d built, I drove to the beach and waded out past the surf.

           “Do you think humans and nautiloids go to the same afterlife?”

           Maybe. Hope.

           “I’ll see you later, then. Godspeed, good friend.”

           I laid a garland of knotted yarn over the shell: a nautiloid benediction, written out. I knew a few of the words humans use, and I said those as well. Then I pushed the raft off, away from the shore.

           When I climbed out of the water, I was alone in my head.

-------

           “You’re different,” Greg said. It was my first day back at the site. “You have a good vacation?”

“Yeah. I had to attend a funeral right at the end, though.”

“Man.” Greg winced. “Family?”

“A friend.”

“That’s rough.”

“It was time. And the service was just the way my friend wanted.”

“Timing still sucks.” Greg shuffled. “Oh hey, you’ll like this: the museum was running an exhibit on ancient sea life. I had my daughter last weekend, so I took her to see it.” He handed me a flier. “She wants to do her school project on these nautilus fossils. I told her you could help her with the research.”

“I don’t know how much I can help, but I’ll try.” I smiled at the picture on the flier.

My friend’s book was coiled neatly in my backpack; I had already started the translation. I doubted most people would want to read it, and even fewer would believe it. But it would be there, at least for a while: a faint, brief echo of a people long gone. A chance for them to be remembered.

           I can only hope that when my time comes, someone will offer me the same kindness.

[stories-sometimes]

Not So Happy Halloween

Bucky Barnes x Reader

Summary: Halloween brings up old memories. Some angst in there.

Word Count: 994

Masterlist

She knelt on the carpet in her new house, slowly unboxing her possessions. Throughout the morning she’d gotten through unpacking at a reasonably rapid pace, that was until she reached the box of Halloween items. It had always been her favourite holiday, trick-or-treating as a kid that became getting way too dressed up for night she wouldn’t remember the next day when she was a teenager. And she shared that joy with Bucky, stupid matching couple costumes, handing out candy to the kids and watching endless amounts of horror movies together. He would always feel as though the arm he hated so much was just part of his costume, that he was still he was his old self for one night. The night only got better when she was with him. They embodied their demons with outfits and cheesy films, making fun of them rather than fearing them. The two of them could push them away for once.

But that all changed, things could stay that good for long, that’s what she always thought. Life got in the way, the missions and the fights and all the long nights. They became partners, both in real life and on the job. Bucky knew she didn’t need it, but it made him feel better if he was there to protect her, which seemed like a perfect plan until things went wrong. Mistakes built tension between them, they ignored it until it bubbled over and erupted. She still remembered that night vividly.

“I had him exactly where I wanted him, I could of had the information I needed then you fucking decided to swoop in and fucking kill him!” She screamed as they stood in a dirty motel room in middle-of-nowhere Midwest America.

“He was about to set off a bomb, I found his plans. I’m so sorry for being a shitty person for saving you!” He shouted back.

“I knew about the bomb, I knew what I was doing. Can you but a little bit of trust in me for once?”

“I do trust you, but I still want to protect you.” He watched her jaw clench at that comment, he knew how much she hated feeling like she wasn’t independent.

“I can protect myself, I did it before you and can sure as hell do it after you.” She said without thinking.

“After me, what are you just waiting for the right moment to drop me?”

“Bucky I didn’t mean it like that, I-”

“Don’t bother.” He said as he turned away, slipping into the bed, staying silent for the rest of the night and the morning after and for far longer than she could bare. The usual soft touches and sweet words were gone, anger radiated from Bucky. They never really resolved that fight, they agreed to forget about it but the underlying issues still remained.

She wished she had allowed herself to be more emotionally vulnerable, to be less fiercely independent. She wished they’d talked. She wished they hadn’t distracted themselves with their endless missions. Every glance at the Halloween decorations brought up more and more memories. 

Eventually they decided it might be better to go on missions separately as that seemed to be the main issue. But that only created a bigger rift between them. She started going on missions with Thor. Bucky had grown more insecure after their first argument and as those missions went on he watched the girl he loved and the God of Thunder grow closer. They were completely platonic, the logical part of his brain knew that but there was always a voice telling him that they were more. She always seemed so happy around him, but around Bucky that tension still lingered in the air. They stopped sleeping in the same room, they stopped communicating. They were still in love, but the unsolved issues pushed them to breaking point.

At the bottom of one box was an old tattered costume, still covered in the blood from that Halloween night. She didn't even know she still had it.

Her and Bucky finally had to go on a mission together again. It was Halloween night and they were dressed up to seamlessly blend into the crowds as they hunted some remaining Hydra agents. It went successfully, they caught them, they took them down. Once it was done they were forced to be alone together.

“I think we should talk.” Bucky suggested after a prolonged silence. She nodded absentmindedly. “Are you sleeping with Thor?” That got her attention. She stared at him, her face a mix of shock and outrage.

“Why the hell would you think that?”

“You seem very close, I just want the truth.”

“I’m not cheating on you.” She replied bluntly.

“Then why are you so much more comfortable with him than me? If you’re fucking him just tell me.”

“I’m not sleeping with Thor.”

“Then what’s happened, why don’t you sleep in bed with me?”

“Because everything’s so tense, every time we’re together, I feel like we’re going to explode. Things haven’t been good in a while.”

“If you feel like that what’s the point.”

“I don’t know.” That was it, it was over. As soon as they were back at the compound she packed her things, stayed with friends for a while, tried to live a normal life away from superheroes. It took her a year to get back up on her feet to adjust, to finally move out into her own place.

She was still in love with him, she never stopped, never would. Halloween was now just a bitter reminder. At some point she started crying although she had no clue when, but there were no signs of stopping. She heard a knock at her door, so she left her wallowing to answer it. She felt like she'd seen a ghost as she tried to suppress her tears.

"Hey doll, I want to do this right this time. Can we try again?"

[the--blackdahlia]

Natural Born Killers Chapter 11 (Sam x Dean)

Title: Natural Born Killers Chapter 11

Summary:  It started as an accident. That’s what it was. But things escalated from there and now the law wants Dean Winchester, one way or another

Warnings: Language

Present

Victor had left the room a bit ago to think about some of the things Sam had told him. There was no way that it could be true what he was saying. It all seemed a little too perfect, a little too rehearsed.

“Everything okay?” Diana asked. Victor sighed.

“He’s hiding something. I know he is. I just can’t get him to crack.” Victor told her.

“Maybe he’s telling the truth. Maybe he doesn’t know anything.” Diana suggested. Victor shook his head.

“I’ve seen his brother’s and dad’s files. I know what the Winchester’s are capable of. There’s no way that Sam is innocent.”

“Well, you’ve only got a few more hours to keep him.” Diana pointed out. Victor sighed.

“I know, I know.” He headed back to the interrogation room. He decided to sit outside and observe for a little bit. Because Sam was going to do something to slip up. He just knew it.

****

2006

Sam’s head hurt. He wasn’t sure if it was from being in the car the whole time, or if there was another vision/dream thing coming on. All he knew was he wanted to sleep and get rid of the headache. Dean had even turned on the soft rock station. Currently, a Bryan Adams song was playing lowly from the speakers and Sam had his eyes closed.

“Love makes monsters of us all.” A voice said in his head. Sam groaned a little moved, getting Dean’s attention. Sam hadn’t been sleeping very well the past few nights. Dean had hoped that being in Baby with the soft rock playing would help.

“De?” Sam asked, opening his eyes some.

“We’re almost there baby boy.” Dean said, playing with his hair for a bit. “How’s your head feel?”

“Hurts a little.” Sam said, sitting up more to stretch his back some. “I hope this Missouri has some answers for us.”

“Me too.” Dean mumbled.

They arrived in Lawrence and parked at a motel. Dean made to get out, but Sam snagged his hand, stopping him.

“What?” Dean asked.

“Get two queens.” Sam said. Dean looked like his heart had been broken.

“Is it something I did?” He asked.

“No. I just...we’re brothers here, right? I’m still going to curl up in the same bed as you. I just don’t want the weird looks that go with it.” Sam said.

“Like anyone’s going to remember us. I was four and you were six months when we left.” Dean said.

“Missouri might.” Sam said. Dean sighed and ran a hand through his hair.

“Yeah. You’re right. I’ll get us two queens.” Dean went up to get their room for their Lawrence stay. He came back a bit later and parked the car in front of their room. It made him think of all the times when they were younger and they were sharing a room with John. Two seperate queen beds and one of the three would usually end up sleeping on the couch.

Sam immediately sat at the small table and started to look into Missouri as Dean set about making the room safe. He heard the familiar clicks of the keyboard and mouse as Sam navigated the browser. Dean found a phone book in the nightstand between the two beds.

“Found it.” Dean and Sam said at the same time. They looked up at each other. Sam had a list of psychics in the area. Dean had an advertisement for Missouri Moseley: Psychic.

“Well, guess we’re on the right path then.” Dean said. “Do you want to go now or…”

“Let’s go.” Sam said. “The sooner we can get some answers, the better.” Sam got up, ready to go. Dean grabbed him and pulled him to him, kissing him deeply. He could feel the way Sam melted.

“What was that for?” Sam asked when they broke apart.

“I don’t know when I’m going to get to kiss you again.” Dean said. Sam blushed a little but managed to gain himself as they left to go talk to Missouri.

****

Missouri was not what Sam and Dean had expected. She was probably a foot shorter than them, but firey as hell. They watched as she talked to one of her clients and looked at her as he left.

“Poor fool. His wife is cheating on him.” She sighed. “Well, Sam and Dean, come on.” The boys looked at each other before following her to her office. She smiled at the both of them. “Boys, you grew up so handsome!” Dean glanced over at Sam. He didn’t miss the look on Missouri’s face though. But she didn’t say anything. She had seen a lot worse from hunter children over the years. Instead, she closed her eyes for a second to focus.

“So, you know us.” Dean said. Missouri nodded.

“Your daddy brought you with him when he came to visit me.” She said. “I heard…”

“He died?” Sam said. “Werewolf.”

“Tragic.” She said. “At least you boys have each other, right?”

“Yeah.” Dean said, nodding. “But, we came here for some questions.”

“Well, take a seat.” Missouri said, motioning for them to sit down. “What can I help with?” Dean and Sam looked at each other. Dean started to put his feet up on the coffee table in front of him. “Boy, you put your feet on my table and I’m going to beat you with a spoon.”

“I didn’t…”

“You were thinking about it. And your little muscle twitches said otherwise.” She told him. Dean sighed and kept his feet planted on the ground. Sam’s heart was racing. This was his vision. Missouri, the coffee table, everything.

“Sam?” Dean asked, getting Sam’s attention.

“Sam.” Missouri said, taking his hands in hers. He looked up at her. “Tell me.”

“The...the thing that killed my mom, it killed one of my best friends.” Sam told her. “And I’ve heard it’s after me. And I don’t know why.” Missouri could see the tears in his eyes at what he had told her. She glanced over at Dean, who was sitting closer to Sam know and rubbing his back in small, soothing circles.

“Sam, he’s after you and me. Well, not so much me anymore.” Missouri explained to Sam. “We are a rare breed. We’re natural born psychics.”

“What?” Dean asked. “Sammy’s not psychic.”

“I’m afraid he is.” Missouri said. “The question is, what kind of psychic are you Sam? Me? I can read thoughts. It was so hard when I was younger and it made my head feel like it was going to explode. But I learned to control it and now I can listen in if I want, but I don’t have to.”

“I have these dreams and sometimes they come true.” Sam told her. “And one of them happened when I was awake a few nights ago. In fact, I saw you and Dean was about to put his feet up on the table.”

“You can see the future.” Missouri said with a smile.

“So, why does this demon or whatever want natural born psychics?” Dean asked.

“They’re rare.” Missouri said. “And it’s hard to predict them unless you have some insider secrets. A psychic child can be born to non-psychic parents, and vice versa. Say if Sam was to have a child, there would be no guarantee that he or she would be psychic.” She paused for a second. “My son isn’t psychic. Or if he is, he’s keeping it from me.”

“So this demon wants natural born psychics? For what?” Dean asked. Missouri shrugged.

“I don’t know.” She said. “He seems to have given up on us older ones and are going after the younger generation.” She got up and went to a desk. “I have talked to some hunters who have told me there seem to be a surge of twenty-two year olds with psychic abilities. Normally, in the United States, there are one or two a year. According to what some hunters have shared with me, and now including Sam, in 1983, there were at least 8.”

Sam and Dean sat there, thinking about it all. There were 7 other people out there like Sam that didn’t have their knowledge. For all they knew, the demon could’ve gotten them already.

“Sam.” Missouri said, pulling Sam from his thoughts. “It’s going to be hard at first, but with some training and meditation, you’ll realize you’ve been given a gift.” She offered Sam a small smile. “And I can help you. Of course, I don’t see the future, but I can teach you ways to ease the pain. It will get better with time.”

“Thank you Missouri.” Sam said. “We really should be going though.”

“You don’t have to rush off.” She said.

“We haven’t really slept in like forty-eight hours.” Sam said with a bit of a laugh. Missouri nodded.

“Well, don’t be strangers.” She told them. “I expect to see you again.”

“Thanks for everything.” Dean said as the two rushed out. Dean knew she had read some of the stuff in his mind. He just wasn’t sure what she had read. He followed Sam out to the Impala, and neither of them spoke until they were safe back inside the confines of their motel room.

“Why me?” Sam asked as he sat on one of the beds, his head in his hands. Dean shed his jacket and knelt on the floor in front of Sam. “Why did it have to be me?”

“Sweetheart, look at me.” Dean said. Sam looked at Dean and he could see the fear in his little brother’s eyes. “You’re still the boy I fell in love with. You’re still the one I want to spend the rest of my life with. There is nothing, and I mean absolutely nothing, that will change that. Not this, not anything else.”

“But…” Sam started to say. Dean shook his head.

“We’re going to work through this, just like we always do.” Dean told him. “Some little psychic crap isn’t changing anything. I mean, you’re Sam Fucking Winchester after all.” He smiled when he saw the little smirk on Sam’s face.

“I guess you’re right.” Sam laughed a little.

“Of course I’m right. I’m older and wiser.” Sam rolled his eyes a little. Dean moved to sit by Sam. “Come here.” He pulled him to him and kissed him gently. “We will deal with these visions or whatever as they come. But for now, we have each other. And I’ve missed you.” He placed gentle kisses on Sam’s collarbone. Sam let himself relax. Dean was good at that. Getting the tension out of Sam’s muscles.

Dean was great at therapy.

Forever Tags: @anathewierdo @we-ride-with-the-tide @dekahg @marvel-af @nanie5 @imboredsueme @gemini0410 @aiaranradnay @babypink224221 @mogaruke @xxwarhawk @strab0 @sandlee44

Supernatural Tags: @bandobsession98 @mrsdeanfuckingwinchester @fangirlsencyclopaediaofweirdness @ilovetardis @missihart23 @supernaturalwincestsblog @flamencodiva @sams-serialkiller-fetish @cloudyskylines @theas-bedtime-stories

Natural Born Killers Tags: @mysteriousharmony @webcraft4eveh @mereka18 @writinginthesecrettrees

[snffbeebee]

RED ( Part 7 )

{ Catch up with Part 6 }

Warnings - Violence, Angst, Language and...surprise surprise some Fluff..

Word Count - 2,990

Dean flung the last lamp off the dresser as he felt the hot rage running through him. His breathing was deep and quick as he looked around at the trashed room. Taking in a deep breath, he was slipping and he knew it. He glanced towards the closed bathroom door, knowing the best thing was for him to get out of this room before all the rage quickly turned towards you. He grabbed his jacket and slammed the door shut behind him. Revving up the engine of the red mustang, he sped off down the deserted road. As he drove, his arm was twitching, that rage still burning inside him, bubbling at the surface. When he had seen a little bar, he pulled into the parking lot, needing a drink, or maybe 4 to possible quiet it down, at least for a little longer. Walking inside, he saw that there was a little more people then he wanted to be around at this moment, but he sat down at the bar, ordering a drink anyways. After 5 drinks in, he couldn’t sit still anymore. Tossing money onto the bar, he made his way out the door.. Just as he came outside, a tall man stood in his way, and just looked at him.

“ Sorry buddy, I don’t swing that way, but thanks. “ Dean said, trying to make his way past the brown haired man, but he moved yet again in front of him.

When Dean looked at him and seen his eyes go black.

“ Dean Winchester, I thought it would take me awhile to find you, guess I got lucky. “ The man smirked.

“ Lucky huh? “ With the blink of an eye, his eyes went black, causing the man’s smirk to disappear.

“ You’re a demon? “

“ You’re a little behind aren’t you. “ Dean smirked.

With a flash of rage, Dean swiftly pulled out his hidden angel blade and had taken out the demon in his way. Getting to his feet, he put his foot on the man’s chest, reaching down and pulling the Angel blade from his chest with one quick motion. He looked down at the bloody corpse and felt a wave of calmness come over him as he let out a breath. Wiping the blood from the blade on his jeans, he got into his car and squealed onto the road, leaving a trail of dust behind him. He drove around until the sun started to rise, making his way back to the motel room. Looking around at the room, he instantly thought of you. The fear in your eyes when he put his hands on you at the bar, the way you jumped when he exploded and started throwing things around the room.

“Y/N” he called out, but there was no answer.

Shit, you must have escaped. He wanted to be angry as he reached for the bathroom door, but the thought of you escaping this life, this hell, well that was a strange feeling of relief. He opened the bathroom door, only to find you asleep laying your head against the dingy tub. He picked you up slowly, trying not to wake you, laying you down on the bed where you snuggled your head deep into the pillow. Letting out a sigh, he stepped into the bathroom, stripped off his blood splattered clothing and took a long hot shower. Feeling the warmth and the calm take over him.

Towel drying his hair, he stepped back into the dimly lit room. His eyes drifted to you, sleeping soundly in the bed. He tossed the towel onto the other bed, then without waking you up, he laid down next to you. His eyes wondering you face, memorizing every inch of it. The feeling of regret washed over him. He knew you would probably never see him the same again after last night. Hell, after the couple weeks

Feeling a warm hand brush across your face, woke you from your dead sleep. When your eyes met with Dean's, you instantly pushed away from him and sat up as far away from him as possible without falling off the bed. Dean saw the fear in your eyes, and let out a sigh, running his fingers through his hair. After a few minutes of silence, he spoke.

“ Look, I shouldn’t have lost it like that last night…They are definitely gonna charge me out the ass for trashing the room. “ He joked, trying to relieve some of the tension between you two, but when the fear in your eyes didn’t fade even in the slightest, he knew it was going to take more than a joke to make this better.

“ I need you to know that I would never hurt you Y/N “ He said softly.

You took in a shaky breath as you thought about everything he put you through over the past couple weeks, then looked him in the eyes.

" You knocked me out, kidnapped me, had me handcuffed for like a week straight....and you locked me in a trunk Dean...you don't call that hurting me? "

He knew he might not have left any marks on the outside, but he knew he left marks on the inside, where it really mattered the most. In that moment, he made a split decision and got his feet.

"I'll prove it to you Y/N, let's go." He said picking up your jacket then tossing it onto the bed next to you.

" Where are we going? " You hesitated getting to your feet.

"I'll take you where ever you want to go." he said, opening the door and looking over at you, his face soft.

Not knowing if you could believe him or not, you got to your feet with your jacket in your hands. You slowly followed him as he walked outside. He stopped at the car and let out a breath.

"Take me home..." you whispered while looking up to his green eyes, shining brighter than you had seen in a long time. He nodded in response.

"I'll take you to the closest bus stop so you don't have to be around me any longer. You are no longer my prisoner. But Y/N if you do get on that bus, don't you ever turn back because if you do...I can't promise you freedom from all of this."

When you said nothing, just looking at him, he opened the passenger door. You slipped inside with him closing the door behind you, before he himself getting in and taking off out of the parking lot. The ride to the bus stop was silent, but you couldn’t help but glance  at him through the corner of your eye. His hands gripping the steering wheel, focusing on the road. You took in a deep breath, as he finally pulled into the empty parking lot of the bus station. You followed him as he got out of the car and headed to the trunk. You watched as he pulled out a green duffel bag and held it out to you.

“ Here, you’re gonna need some clothes and  things until you get home. “

You wouldn’t let yourself look him in those green eyes, knowing that you break if you did. You grabbed the bag, then went straight into the station, Dean watching every step you took. After finding out that the next bus back to Texas, was not until 10:30 tomorrow morning, you ran your fingers through your hair as you walked back outside. Your heart skipped a beat when you seen Dean leaning against the red car.

“ Why are you still here? “ You asked, a little surprised.

“ Why aren’t you getting on a bus? “ He replied, standing up straight.

“ It doesn’t leave until tomorrow morning. “

Dean felt a wave of relief and he couldn’t help but smile.

“ Come on, let’s go get some food and maybe a drink. “

You raised an eyebrow to him, not taking a step towards him.

“ Come on Y/N. “ He said, as he moved to stand in front of you.

“ I just wanna take care of you, while I still have the chance...can you just let me do that. “

You couldn’t deny that you were starving and could use about 2 bottles of Jack at the moment.  Every logical fiber in your mind told you that this was it, your chance to get away  from the black eyes that were surely to come back again. It was only a matter of time. There was that tiny voice that you could not ignore though as you watched him standing there, patiently waiting for you to respond. He was still in there. He could still be saved. You could save him

“ Fine. “ You said as you pushed past him and into the car.

Dean couldn't help but shake his head with a little laugh at your attitude before getting into the car as well. Again there was nothing but silence between you and the low music coming from the radio. You could feel the tension between the two of you and you hated it. You had so much you wanted to say...no yell at him, but you didn’t want to snap him back into the monster you had seen last night. You watched as he finally took his hand off the steering wheel and reached down to the radio and turned up the volume. The sound of the guitar coming from the speakers brought memories flooding to your brain.

“ Out in the backseat of my 67 Chevy. “ Dean sung with a smirk.

This was one of the many songs that you two would sing along to, your legs over his lap, your head resting on your window, as you would just watch him sing his off key heart out. Without even realizing it, you were now singing along as he turned up the volume a little more.

“ Come on Y/N, don’t hold back on me now. “ He smiled.

That smile, that was one that you hadn’t seen in a while. That one that made your heart race. After about 4 songs later, Dean pulled up to a little pub and turned off the car with a shake of his head. Nothing was said, but you both just headed in through the big door and found a booth.

“ What can I get you two? “ The blonde smiled down at Dean.

His eyes didn’t even glance at her as he ordered.

“ 2 bacon cheese burgers, extra bacon and fries please. “

“ And 2 beers also. “ You added, smirking at her.

She just nodded her head, then walked off to put in your order. His eyes finally locked with yours and you let out a breath, just looking at him.

“ What? “ He asked, confused by the look you were giving him.

“ Nothing. “ You said, holding back the little smile that was forcing itself on your lips.

“ You know this place kind of reminds me of that one in New York. You know where that possessed doll was calling the shots. “

You scrunched your face in confusion, pondering why Dean would even bring that up.

“Yeah…” You commented softly. “I do believe that was one of the first times I had ever seen you freaked out. “

“ Dolls man, creepy little shits. “He smirked. “And you remember that one time…”

That was how the rest of the night went. The whole time you were there, you ate, had a few beers and just talked, like the past couple weeks was just a bad dream, like he never left all of those years ago.

“Oh and when that vamp licked your face when she had you pinned down. I didn’t know if you were going to piss yourself or cum in your pants. “ You laughed while finishing off your beer. “I mean, she was hot, but thank goodness for Sa…”

You stopped yourself suddenly from finishing your sentence. Sam. He was still out there, not knowing if you were alive or what his brother was doing to you. You bit down on your bottom lip while looking away from Dean’s raised eyebrow.

“Only took you all night to mention him. “ He grinned. “I was waiting for when he would pop up.”

“Yeah, well there aren’t that many stories without him in them.” You quipped while pulling at the label of the bottle.

“Just go ahead and say what you are thinking.”

“Yeah, no thanks.”

“You are wondering why I left baby bro high and dry. Going off with Crowley, aren’t you?”

“Well… yeah.” You stammered back.

“Well the little gift from Cain here. “ he stated while motioning to his arm. “And a little help from a dick named Metatron; helped create the new Dean. A better Dean. Dean 2.0.”

“I liked the old Dean.” You mumbled under your breath.

“Ah, but you see he was weak. Constantly held back with all those emotions. Hell, you want to see torture, just try living in his head for a day. “ he laughed while setting himself back onto the worn leather seat. “Now, I’m free. I don’t have anything holding me back. No worries, no regrets, not a damn care in the world.”

“You must care about something; I mean you haven’t killed me yet. “ You responded while gazing back up to his face. It quickly turned into a devilish smirk.

“It’s probably about time to call it quits for tonight. Let you get some sleep or something in the car until morning.”

You nodded in agreement, a little hesitation ran through you as you both got up from the booth not knowing if what you had said hit a nerve. A bad one. After paying for the food and drinks, you both made your way outside. Walking towards the car, you felt a hand grab onto your arm. Turning and seeing black eyes staring at you, your hunter instincts kicked in for the first time in weeks and you elbowed him in the face.

“ Feisty one, aren’t ya. “ The man laughed.

“ Oh you have no idea. “ You smirked.

When he came at you again, you realized that you had no weapons on you; the panic instantly hitting. He wasn’t even 2 steps from you, when you saw the blade come through his chest. You watched Dean over his shoulder, a smirk on his face.

“ I don’t think so. “ He said, his voice deep that you hated to admit, was sexy as hell right now.

He pushed the man off the knife and watched him drop to the dirt ground. He looked up while a deep breath moved through his chest: his eyes meeting yours as you heard the stomping of footsteps coming your way.

“ You ready? “ He asked, tossing you the blade.

It took you a second, but you felt arms wrap around your neck, you clued in and flung the blade backwards into the woman’s chest who had grabbed you. You didn’t know how many you guys took out, but you did know that your adrenaline was pumping. All of that built up rage of being locked up, was let out and you almost felt calmer.

It was quiet now as you looked down to the mess of blood and empty meat suits around you. Dean turned and looked at you, as he caught his breath, his face and clothes splattered with blood. You wiped the blade off on the spot on your jeans that wasn't completely drenched in the hot stickiness of your attackers and held it out to him. A slight smirk of satisfaction as you felt the release move through you after so long.

Reaching for it, his hand covered yours, and he didn’t let it go. He saw  the look of satisfaction on your face and he wondered if giving you the option to leave was what he really wanted.

“That felt good didn’t it? Letting the animal inside of you free? Stop holding it back Y/N, let's howl at the moon” He said as his hand slid from your hand, and rested softly on your cheek.

The feeling of his hand on your skin sent an electric shock straight up your spine and you let out a shaky breath.

“ Come on Y/N, we can be together, just like we were all those years ago. “

“ You really think that is where you’re going to find happiness Dean? “

His other hand moved to sit on your other cheek as his eyes locked with yours, almost like they were staring straight into your soul.

“ Who cares where happiness comes from Y/N! Black eyes or not, you know how I feel about you...how I’ve always felt about you. . “ He said no louder than a whisper.

Your breath quickening as you looked up to his eyes through your eye lashes. There they were. Shining bright like they had once done years ago, concentrating on your face. His lips stood perfectly still on his face while waiting for you to move. You felt them pulling you closer, to feel them against your own. A noise in the distance broke the trance you were in, his green eyes turning black as his body stiffened in place as he turned his head. His hands dropping from your face, waiting for whatever would come next. A black cat ran from the spot quickly, making his eyes flash back to the green they were.

“Damn cat,” he smirked while turning back towards you.

You couldn’t hold it back any longer. An invisible force taking over you as you reached up and pulled his lips towards yours, hungrily greeting them as the world around you disappeared.

Feedback is the fuel that keeps me writing!! Please feel free to let me know what ya think!! Thanks again for all the Love!! <3

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[kellysbookblog]

TASTE, an all-new sexy, stranded enemies-to lovers rom com from USA Today and #1 Amazon bestselling author Melanie Harlow is live now!

 The last person on earth I want to be stranded with is Gianni Lupo.

 But thanks to the blizzard of the century, I’m trapped in a roadside motel room with that cocky bastard for two straight days.

 With one small bed.

 Some women might thank Mother Nature for delivering a polar vortex that maroons them with six feet of solid muscle, those deep blue eyes, that sexy grin--but not me. I’ve known Gianni Lupo all my life, and he’s never brought me anything but bad luck and trouble.

 So when the tension between us explodes with enough fiery heat to melt my icy defenses, I should have known what the disastrous end result would be--

 A big fat plus sign.

 After the snow melts, I’m left with more than just memories of the night we spent keeping each other warm. And he might be a rising star on the culinary scene, but he’s got no idea how to handle this bun in the oven.

 He says he wants to do the right thing, but I’m not about to spend the rest of my life feeling like someone settled for me.

 But just when I think I’ve got Gianni Lupo all figured out, he gives me a taste of the man he could be, of the family we could become, of the way he could love me if I let him.

 I’m terrified of falling for him.

 But one taste might be all it takes.

  Grab your copy exclusively on Amazon or read FREE on Kindle Unlimited today!

Amazon: https://amzn.to/3JIXsRM

Amazon Worldwide: http://mybook.to/TasteMH

Paperback: https://harlow.pub/Taste-pb

Audio: Coming Soon

   Excerpt

 I sat at the foot of the bed and dialed Winnie’s number. She picked up immediately.

“Ellie?”

“Hey.”

“Thank God! You guys okay?”

“We’re fine.” I watched Gianni unwrap a candy bar and lean back against the headboard. “We found a motel with a vacancy.”

“You mean you’re staying in a motel room together?” she asked, loud enough for Gianni to overhear.

“Yeah. And there’s only one bed.”

She laughed. “How’s that going?”

“Fine.”

“You guys are getting along?”

Gianni made a lewd gesture involving his fist, his tongue, and his inner cheek. I gave him the finger. “As well you’d expect.”

“I can’t wait to hear about it.”

“We’re going to try to get out of here as soon as we can in the morning. I’ll let you know when we’re on the road.”

“Sounds good.” She laughed again. “Sleep tight.”

“Oh. We will.” I eyed the length of the bed. “We have no choice.”

After ending the call, I opened the Truth or Drink app on my phone and picked up my wine. “Ready to play?”

“Hit me.”

I scrolled through the options. “Do you want to play normal mode, party mode, or dirty mode?

Gianni looked at me like I was crazy. “Duh.”

I sighed and reached for my wine. “Okay, fine. I feel like I’m going to regret this, but dirty it is.”

“Can I take my pants off?”

“No. What’s your age range for a one night-stand?”

“Hmm.” Gianni thought for a moment.

“Please say at least eighteen.”

“No teenagers. I’ll say twenty to forty-five.”

“Forty-five? Really?”

He shrugged. “I think mature women are hot. But I can’t go near fifty because that’s my mom’s age and then it would be weird.”

“Right.”

“So what about you? Same question.”

“I’d have to say . . . thirty to forty.”

He looked offended. “Why thirty? You’re only twenty-three.”

And so was he, which was why I’d said it. “I know, but I think older men are just better in bed.” (I’d actually never been with anyone over twenty-eight.)

“In what way?”

“Just . . . more patient. More knowledgeable. More generous. Guys in their twenties think they’re all that just because they have younger bodies, especially if they’re—you know—well-endowed. But it’s not just the size of the boat. It’s definitely the motion of the ocean.”

He harrumphed. “You’ve been in the wrong boats.”

  Add Taste to Goodreads: https://bit.ly/3sWbzNO

  About Melanie Harlow

USA Today bestselling author Melanie Harlow likes her martinis dry, her heels high, and her history with the naughty bits left in. When she's not writing or reading, she gets her kicks from TV series like Ted Lasso, Schitt’s Creek, and Fleabag. She occasionally runs three miles, but only so she can have more gin and steak.

 Melanie is the author of the BELLAMY CREEK series, the CLOVERLEIGH FARMS series, the ONE & ONLY series, AFTER WE FALL series, the HAPPY CRAZY LOVE series, and the FRENCHED series. She lifts her glass to romance readers and writers from her home near Detroit, MI, where she lives with her husband, two daughters, and pet rabbit.

  Connect with Melanie

Facebook: http://bit.ly/2RPwr51

Amazon: http://amzn.to/1NPkYKs

Bookbub: http://bit.ly/36kL7yB

Instagram: http://bit.ly/2NW3UtA

Pinterest: http://bit.ly/2sVOz55

Facebook Reader Group: https://bit.ly/3mYzBBo

Stay up to date with new releases and sign up for Melanie’s mailing list: http://bit.ly/2P7MATT Website: www.melanieharlow.com

[bookloveravenue]

Cloverleigh Farms (book 7): Taste by Melanie Harlow

The last person on earth I want to be stranded with is Gianni Lupo.

But thanks to the blizzard of the century, I’m trapped in a roadside motel room with that cocky bastard for two straight days.

With one small bed.

Some women might thank Mother Nature for delivering a polar vortex that maroons them with six feet of solid muscle, those deep blue eyes, that sexy grin--but not me. I’ve known Gianni Lupo all my life, and he’s never brought me anything but bad luck and trouble.

So when the tension between us explodes with enough fiery heat to melt my icy defenses, I should have known what the disastrous end result would be--

A big fat plus sign.

After the snow melts, I’m left with more than just memories of the night we spent keeping each other warm. And he might be a rising star on the culinary scene, but he’s got no idea how to handle this bun in the oven.

He says he wants to do the right thing, but I’m not about to spend the rest of my life feeling like someone settled for me.

But just when I think I’ve got Gianni Lupo all figured out, he gives me a taste of the man he could be, of the family we could become, of the way he could love me if I let him.

I’m terrified of falling for him.

But one taste might be all it takes.

https://www.goodreads.com/book/show/59684983-taste

********

February 25, 2022

My Review: 5/5 Stars

The next generation of the Cloverleigh kids continues. Except this time we get the grown up kids from the books Frenched series. A series I admit I haven't had a chance to read yet! But will definitely be reading soon. These kids, specifically Ellie, are friends with some of the Cloverleigh Farm kids. Ellie is best friends with Winnie, who was the heroine in the previous book. We saw a sneak peek of Ellie and Gianni's love hate relationship in Winnie's story, but now we get to see what happens when the two of them stop fighting and bickering and let the chemistry between the two of them spark.

Ellie and Gianni have grown up together. Their mothers are best friends and their childhoods were spent never far apart. But now they are 23 and have some pretty successful careers and ones they hope to build up more. Their childhood banter turned into confusing feelings of wondering what it would be like if they got together but knowing that it may not be a good idea. But one weekend changes it all. The two of them get snowed in. Stranding them at a motel. And of course there is only one bed. Truths will be spilled, sparks will fly, and that weekend will change everything between them.

I loved their story! There was no rush in their feelings between them. There were always lingering feelings but never acted on. They both knew one another yet didn't. The weekend gave them a chance to and in doing so they realize that their goals were different, but the pull between them could mean something. If they were brave enough to let it. But neither know how to let themselves be vulnerable enough to try. They had to really build their relationship and trust one another in order to have a chance at a future. You can't help but love the two of them. Their banter was hilarious and at times they could be such total polar opposites but in their case, opposites truly attract. I couldn't put their story down! And I cannot wait for more books.

I received an ARC in exchange for an honest review.

[originaldetectivesheep]

Tales of the Missing 3 - Lo que no se puede llamar "amor"

There are some things expressed without words -- there are some things, for which there are no words, in any tongue, to express.

Lo que no se puede llamar "amor"

Davíd shook his head, not playing along with Miguel's monologue about what he'd do with their client, what he'd do to Nicole who was probably just over through the door into the house, might be hearing what they were saying about her while they were working over the foundations of her mud room.  He couldn't say anything back if he didn't want to get it from him, virgin, little boy even though he had at least a decade on the Mexican mason and two kids – three by now – back in Cúcuta, but there were some things that just weren't right – and there were a lot of people, white people even, around here who knew Spanish.

"Come on, man," Miguel said, reaching up to pick down another brick from the stack, "throw me a bone here.  You seen her, right? She talks to you, man, even if she don't talk to me – you gotta thought about what it would be like, get a piece of that."

Davíd held up his left hand, the plain gold band on his ring finger gleaming through the grimy stone dust.  "I'm a married man, bro; too much to even think about.  All I want to do is get this floor done, get back for Christmas and see my new baby.  I don't got time to jerk off on the job."

Miguel shook his head, trying to do sad but not getting much past disappointed.  "Your wife got you whipped, man; no good." He seated the brick in and scraped out the extra mortar as it squeezed up at the seams.

Davíd just gave him a look.  "Nobody's whipped: I do my job, I send the money, and Felicia takes care of the kids. Three now – I ain't showed you Jorge's pictures yet.  How many you got with your motel girls from Randolph?"  That shut him up, and Davíd took down a couple more bricks to finish laying the corner.

Still, though, Davíd thought as they worked, Miguel finding other things to rant about, he had eyes.  Nicole was a picture: the look people went for when they cast hot rich housewives in novelas and pornos, always perfectly made up but like she wasn't wearing anything, that soft brown hair twisted up in a chignon at the back of her head, stylish even in the loose comfortable clothes she put on to sit around the house.  Maybe she was making an extra effort because there were strangers in and she didn't want them to think she was sloppy – maybe she was making an effort because there was something else there.

Miguel was right – she talked to him.  She talked with Finn, the boss, when they were coming in and out, businesslike, making plans, making sure the invoices came, that the schedule worked, and she'd talked at everyone in a few stilted words of high-school Spanish on the couple times she brought out coffee or water on breaks, but she talked to him more – she maybe talked to him special, or maybe he was just dazzled by her eyes, her smile, and didn't see it when she might be talking the same to other guys.  But she did talk to him, yeah, going through the house to use the downstairs guest toilet, or when he was the last one out picking up tools and making sure the dust got swept out of everywhere it shouldn't be, unplugging the heater, and any time she did she had a smile for him – a smile and the feeling like she might want to put an ivory-white, manicured hand on his scarred brown arm.  What was it, that bit, right before Thankgiving, that day they were sprinting to get the front steps done in time for them to set before her guests started rolling up?  

"So how do you say 'Happy Thanksgiving' in Spanish?" she'd asked, while he was scraping flecks out of his pants on the back steps. "Feliz día de Acción de Gracias," he'd answered, not getting it, and then she'd smiled pure golden sunshine.  "Feliz día de Acción de Gracias," she said, slow and careful and making sure the vowels were right, the accent in the right place; "that's funny – I thought it was 'Happy Thanksgiving in Spanish'."  She'd giggled a little, and he smiled, too – bad jokes, dad jokes, but you didn't do dad jokes with strangers unless you thought, even a little, that you might want to be a little more familiar: someone you could let your guard down with and just be silly, be comfortable, be yourself, be together. And if Nicole was like that with him, when she was like that with him, Davíd couldn't help feeling something for her: not love like he had with Felicia and the way he felt when he was home with her, the kids around the house with her, lying in bed with her nestled in his arms, and it wasn't lust like he'd had back when he was chasing her, back before her like when he just wanted to grab a girl and drag her in, kiss her deep, push her down, take her body and make her moan and beg for it.  It was something else, something different: something like it was both and neither and the other side of the universe from anything like it, a passion that didn't make any damn sense and ran up on his heart out of nowhere like it was about to explode.

They got the bricks laid down, the whole of the under-layer finished, and now all that was left was to set.  Davíd and Miguel wrestled the pallet of tiles up out of the truck while Finn measured again, and it turned out the room was half an inch shorter and almost an inch less wide than he thought: they'd have to cut the tiles and the saw wasn't in the truck.  "No sense not doing a full day," he said, "we can't lay the tile today, but we can cut the ones that need cutting, and they'll be ready when we come back, and we can get the whole floor done in one shot.  Miguel, come with and help me move it; Davíd, I guess you stick here and keep an eye on the gear and the tiles.  I don't need to lug the two of yous around."  Finn beckoned back out at the truck in the driveway, and Miguel shrugged and followed him out; Davíd sat down on the steps and thought about a cigarette, then thought better of it: it was still Nicole's house, still her rules.

"You're – Finn didn't leave for the day, did he?" Davíd started a little, because he hadn't heard her come up – hadn't heard her open the door behind him.

"No, ma'am – he measure the floor.  We need to cut the tiles.  They go and get the saw – we not done today, yet."  She was as beautiful as ever, one arm reaching up along the side of the doorframe such that her lopsided blouse looked like it was about to fall clean off her other shoulder, and he was covered in mortar grit, a dozen nicks and pricks from stone edges and corners swelling up and puffing over on his hands.

"Well, you don't need to sit out on the stoop waiting for him," she said, and paused for a second – that she paused at all made it significant, made it something, made Davíd's heart jump up into his throat.  "Won't you come inside?" He nodded, tongue sticking dry in his mouth, and stood up to follow her back in through the door.

"I've got to say, it's coming along really well," Nicole said, nodding at the mud room.  "But it has to set, right?  So you won't be putting the tiles on today?"

Davíd nodded. "Yes, ma'am; that's right."  It was good to talk about work – less nervous, less conscious that it was just him and just her in this house, alone.

"But then, after that, you have to come back again to redo the baseboards for the new floor."  She turned around, facing him, not close really but so close, so close – "And wouldn't that be getting late?  Wouldn't that be cutting it close – to go back to Colombia and see your family for Christmas?"  There was a different note in her voice – not messing, but a strange soft tone like she was invested, like it mattered, like almost she felt bad about taking him away from his wife and kids she'd never met, never seen.

Davíd shook his head and cracked a smile.  "Yes, ma'am; it probably be late, but I make it work.  I got to be back this time – my wife have a new baby and I not seen him in person yet."  He shook his head again.  "I just keep looking at the pictures she send – I run my phone battery out, all the time."

"I –"  She paused in the kitchen doorway, brushing at a phantom strand of hair that wasn't on her cheek.  "I've seen – and I thought about it, that it wasn't fair that you're always running out your phone showing the pictures to the other workers.  And, right, you must be looking at them again, all the time, when you're home – so I thought, and it's probably too much, and maybe it's a dumb gift, but – I'd like you to have this."  She reached around the corner and came back with a plain, budget, digital picture frame, and pushed it into Davíd's hands, her own hands soft and warm and alive on his.  "Feliz Navidad."

He took it, not quite understanding the why, not understanding at all that soft and breathless feeling in her voice, and like his arms were moving all of their own accord he reached out and wrapped around and held her close.  Nicole gasped a little at the initial shock, but instantly, when she wasn't kissed, when she felt him, his body, close against her and she could feel that strange and raging and nameless and inscrutable passion from every pore, a tension vibrating on the same frequency as her own heart, she understood – or didn't and she was just reacting, too, her hands pressing in on his back, not seeking or desiring anything else but this embrace, this moment, ready for it to last forever and the rest of the world to drop out and fade out around them.

This wasn't love – whatever this feeling was, it couldn't be called love.  Love made demands and asked for changes: love made children and reached for big houses and knitted together to make one life out of two.  And this wasn't lust, a lust that would have torn down this embrace into desperate thrusting, to take and be taken before anyone could have second thoughts.  This was something else and it made no sense and it didn't need to, sole and solitary and self-sufficient, two people who needed merely this from each other and understood the need and desired nothing but its fulfillment, nothing else in the world, nothing.

Out in the driveway, the truck's tires spun on the gravel out by the street, and the spell was broken.  "Gracias, señora," Davíd said, the hand not holding the picture frame barely tracing on Nicole's arm as she released as well, her hands feathering down to his waist.  "Y feliz Navidad." She smiled, and just like that the last touch was gone.

Maybe, that was it as Miguel and Finn toted the saw and the table inside, plugging it in while Davíd organized up a stack of tiles and stowed the picture frame under the front flap of his overalls.  Maybe that would be it, only ever a few words more and the job would be done and they would never see each other again.  But even if it was, they had had that moment – they would always have that secret, that bond between them that couldn't ever be called love.

further Tales of the Missing ...